


Christmas in Paris: A Musketeers One Shot Collection

by Bluebellstar



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Presents, Christmas Silliness, Established Relationship, Fluff, I Blame Tumblr, Inseparables, Kittens, M/M, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Poor Athos, Post-it Notes, Richelieu's cats, Secret Santa, Sickfic, Snow, The Musketeers are not allowed to decorate, building a snowman, possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21670084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebellstar/pseuds/Bluebellstar
Summary: A series of probably unrelated one shots to celebrate the days until Christmas.Might not all be Christmassy.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 93





	1. WiFi Password (Treville/Richelieu)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've never done one of these before, and doing it for this fandom makes me a little nervous, but I've written it so I might as well continue.
> 
> These are a series of one shots based on prompts. Thus far, it's from a random prompt generator.
> 
> Okay, so this first one isn't really Christmassy but it's vaguely set in December so I count it.
> 
> Enjoy?

It was all Aramis' fault. Seriously, they never meant for this to happen. In their defence, Musketeers weren't renowned for their impulse control, nor for their tolerance of inactivity. It was what made them the best unit in the police force. Sometimes being the best meant inactivity, especially when they required legal assistance. Most of the time, an ordinary lawyer would do; but there were times like this when they had no choice but to turn to him; Armand Richelieu, the best and most selective lawyer in Paris. As it happened, the Captain (their boss) was one of the few people that Richelieu would listen to. Which explained what they were doing here, in Richelieu's house, at half past six in the morning. So, while the Captain dealt with their legal matters, the Musketeers were left to their own devices. With their own devices.

It was Aramis who had the bright idea of attempting to hack Richelieu's private WiFi. It was only right, he said, he owed them for the vendetta he had launched five years ago against their department. The Savoy affair was still a sore spot for the young detective. Athos had sighed and retreated behind that morning's paper (Treville had imparted some old-fashioned appreciation to him), but Porthos (as ever the enabler) and brash d'Artagnan had gleefully leapt upon the idea. As the time (and the argument coming from upstairs) drew on, the suggestions became increasingly ridiculous. Porthos had caught all five of Richelieu's cats, calling their names out to d'Artagnan. Strangely, not even Soumise gained them admission to the vault of the Richelieu's WiFi. They'd run through lists of great politicians, input random lines they heard him say particularly often. Nothing worked.

"What about Cardinal?" Aramis wondered, Porthos wrinkling his forehead at his partner.  
"Why would he use his law firm name as his password?"  
"Because he's a bitter, lonely snake who only has his work?" Aramis suggested, his tone implying this should have been obvious. D'Artagnan hummed in agreement, cursing when that failed too. Athos lowered his paper, peering at the others like they were particularly annoying children.  
"The Captain is going to come down soon, then you'll all be in trouble."  
"All of us will be in trouble" Aramis reminded him pointedly. "All for one, and one for all."  
"I thought our motto was 'every man for himself'" Athos drawled, raising his paper again. That ended the conversation for all of ten seconds, until d'Artagnan dramatically flopped onto the older man, tearing the paper in two. His eyes widened impossibly, pleading with the best puppy dog expression any of them had ever seen. The eyes had never worked on their Captain, but they worked on the Musketeer lieutenant. He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Try Jean Treville."  
"What?" Porthos frowned, looking as if his mind was frozen. "Why would that-" His stumbling denial was replaced with a cheerful bleep. They were connected.  
_________________________

A cheerful little beep interrupted the fond argument the Armand and Jean were having. Armand eyes flickered to his phone, an expression of wry amusement on his face. Jean frowned, not liking what that expression could mean. "What is it?"  
"Nothing of national importance, my dear" Armand replied, mischief dancing in his eyes. "You have some explaining to do." That could mean only one thing. Jean resisted the temptation to go out there and bang his subordinate's heads together.  
"They discovered the wifi password."

In spite of all the teasing (and comments upon his sanity) that were to follow, Jean would forever enjoy the moments after he and Armand rejoined his men. Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan all wore the same expression as if they had been repeatedly clubbed over the head (which, to be fair had happened on more than one occasion). Athos, on the other hand, sat smiling as smugly as the cat who had gotten the cream, the canary, and all the catnip they couldn't ever want. "I've got what we need, time to go!" Jean growled, sharing a quick laughter-filled glance with Armand. His men snapped to, practically running from the door, and Armand. Jean rolled his eyes, kissing Armand before he left. His men knew now, and whatever they insinuated he could deal with. Besides, he had been wearing a wedding ring for the last eight years, and they hadn't noticed that. Brilliant detectives his men might be, but Armand was right; none of them but Athos had any personal observation skills. He stepped out into the snowy morning, breathing in the fresh air. December in Paris; it'd be a good Christmas.


	2. Snowman (Musketeer fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: building a snowman.
> 
> Implied Trevilieu and Milathos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was supposed to be a Trevilieu snowman building fluffy romance thing, but that didn't work out. So, here's some mismatch of team snowman stuff and implied relationships.
> 
> I should also say that ages ago I read a fic about Treville loving Queen music, and in my head that mutated into a the Musketeers love Queen headcanon. I just wanted to say that idea wasn't originally mine.

Somewhere, in one of the suburban arrondissements of Paris, was a normal house. By all accounts it was a perfectly ordinary house, with a fleur-de-lis welcome mat and a front yard covered in snow. What was in that front yard, though, that was decidedly out of the ordinary. Four men stood around a large snowman in the centre of the yard. They were on to the decoration portion of the event. And that, naturally, was where the fun began.

"You can't give a snowman a sword." The comment, typically as dry as ever, came from the front porch. Athos confiscated the offending article from Aramis' hands, replacing it with a long and particularly hideous multicoloured scarf. In fact, it had been a Christmas gift from Athos' brother and sister-in-law to his wife, but Anne was under the impression that Athos had burned it some years before. Why exactly they were making a snowman in the first place was beyond most of their comprehension. Porthos had suggested a get-together, undoubtedly an attempt to cheer up not only Athos but also Treville. With their respective spouses away at a conference for the week, they hadn't exactly been full of the joys of Christmas. Somehow their Sunday get-together had devolved into a snow day.  
"Sword" Aramis demanded, holding his hand out again. Athos ignored him, holding it out of reach.  
"Captain!" Porthos protested, looking to Treville for aid.  
"I agree with Athos" he announced, ignoring Aramis' pout. "And don't call me Captain. We're not at work."  
"You'll always be our Captain, Captain" d'Artagnan replied, bouncing around putting buttons on the snowman. Although, to give proper credit to their appalling building skills, it was more of a snow blob with lots of blobs on top of it. Treville opened his mouth, but closed it again, clearly thinking better of it. Even without the vast quantities of hot chocolate the young Gascon had imbibed, his level of hyperactivity was often akin to a five year old on a sugar high. And, honestly, today he wasn't paid to make them behave themselves. Contrary to their opinion (and what Richelieu often said), Treville wasn't actually their father. That, of course, did nothing to deter his men. "Our snowman is a Musketeer Snowman in honour of our Captain!"  
"So we're having the sword" Porthos announced, thrusting the offending plastic item into the snow. It wobbled threateningly, but refused to do the decent thing and fall off.  
"It's my yard" Athos reminded them, his face doing an uncanny impersonation of Grumpy Cat.  
"He doesn't mind" Aramis said, completely ignoring Athos. Porthos, high on the success only a victory over Athos' reasonableness could bestow, dashed into the house and returned with a feathered hat (regrettably not something Athos could blame on his brother, or on Anne) and a rather dashing eyepatch (Anne might have forced him to go as a pirate to the Cardinal Law Firm's annual Halloween costume party this year). D'Artagnan meanwhile found some Queen on the radio, and cheered.  
"This is going to be the best snowman ever!"  
____________________

Where was Treville while this was happening, you might ask? He had washed his hands of the whole thing, sitting with his head in his hands on the nearest bench. Had he a headache? No. He was just quietly despairing of his life choices. Although, to be fair, it was probably all Richelieu's fault. If he hadn't left for the conference, and taken Milady with him, there would never have been the need for this lunacy. Milady certainly wouldn't allow such an eyesore in her front yard. And Treville would undoubtedly have been at home, reading a book while Richelieu caught up on his sleep with Soumise on his lap. Athos eventually gave up and came to sit beside him. They silently commiserated over their situation, but Treville did see one silver lining on the horizon. "One of these days, Armand will be President, and they'll be all your problem." Athos shot him a glare over the rim of his mug.  
"Then you'll forgive me if I don't vote for him."  
______________________

As the sun sank ever closer to the horizon, there was nothing more that Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan could do. While Aramis sweet talked Porthos into taking a photo of him for the Musketeer Instagram, d'Artagnan bounced over to Athos. "It's finished! Isn't it perfect!" The finished product was certainly eye-catching. From the tip of the hat perched jauntily on it's head, to the six feet of scarf wrapped around it's button encrusted body, and the plastic swords sticking out of its sides, there was nothing typical about this snowman. It was loud, it was bright, and it was completely chaotic. In short, it was the perfect snowman for the Musketeers. They loved it and hated it in equal measure. But at least they were the only ones around to see it. Athos' neighbours were already away for the holidays, and Milady wasn't due back until morning. Or, at least that was what they had thought. The sound of tyres crunching on snow cut through the silence of the end of the Queen playlist, five sets of eyes snapping immediately to the driveway.  
"That was a waste of our time" Milady announced, tapping her red nails against her arm. "Don't ask about the conference. I'm going for a bath." 'Casually', Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan clustered together, trying to block the snowman from Milady's view, but they only succeeded in drawing her shrewd gaze to it. When she saw the abomination in her front yard, Milady sent a look of such epic disgust at the trio that they visibly wilted where they stood. Athos shrugged at his wife's disdain, as if saying this demonstrably was not his fault. It was just another ludicrous situation they'd gotten themselves into, and it was far from the worst or the most embarrassing.  
_________________

While this was occuring, Treville took the opportunity to kiss his husband slowly and leisurely in greeting. "Blacklisting another conference, my love?" Treville wondered, reading the barely concealed annoyance in Richelieu's face. He inclined his head, peering wonderingly at Treville.  
"What have you been doing with yourself?" Richelieu wondered, brushing snow off Treville's shoulder. Treville just groaned and subtly moved to block Richelieu's view.  
"Don't ask."  
"Don't be like that, Captain!" D'Artagnan grinned widely, flushed from the cold and the energy of the afternoon. Besides, it was safe now that Milady had gone inside. The Inseparables were all a little scared of Madame la Fere. "We built a Snow Musketeer. Look!" To Treville's undying regret, Richelieu did. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, amusement and horror warring on his features as he searched for something diplomatic to say. For once, he wasn't in the mood to be cruel in the face of the Musketeers happiness.  
"That looks...rustic, my dear" Richelieu commented, leaning elegantly against his car.  
"Hush" Treville replied, his eyes sparkling. "If you hadn't rushed off to your conference, you could've helped." Richelieu glanced once again towards the Snow Musketeer, his eyebrow arching regally.  
"A dear loss to my day, Jean."  
"Get back in the car, you menace" Treville laughed, shooing his husband. Fondness still shone in his eyes as he turned back to his insufferable men. "I'll see you lot tomorrow. Try and behave until then. I don't want to get another call asking me if I know you lunatics."  
"Good night, Captain" Porthos called without an ounce of shame.  
"Don't do anything we wouldn't do" Aramis echoed, smirking wickedly.  
"That hardly leaves us with anything not to do" Richelieu commented dryly, rolling up his window on the Musketeers' outraged faces. And if he whistled a rather jaunty rendition of Frosty the Snowman as they drove away, well only Treville would know. And he wasn't going to tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading


	3. Elusive Presents and Cats (Trevilieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Involving Jean, a search for a present, and Richelieu's cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attempt at both humour and fluff.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Armand did this every year. It wasn't enough for the man to be mysterious and enigmatic at work, he had to extend his secrecy even to this. A genius at everything he set his mind to (except cooking, but that was another story), Armand was particularly gifted at choosing presents. Jean was not. Armand had all but threatened divorce if Jean gave him anything but flowers for his birthday and their anniversaries, but this was Christmas and Jean wanted to give him something that would be special. To do that, however, he first had to find what that brilliant madman had gotten him. Every year he looked, and every year he failed. He was zero from fifteen. This was the Christmas that would change. He had a plan. Armand was out for the day, a convenient distraction in the form of Athos wanting assistance with a delicate case, and even the six demons (Armand's infernal cats) had been bribed for their good behaviour - not that he was under any illusions that that would last. Now all Jean had to do was find the presents. There were only so many rooms in their house, and so many places Armand would have hidden things. Despite his track record, it couldn't possibly be that difficult.

Gazette and Perruque followed him with their eyes, the feeling like tiny daggers stabbing into his back. But he was determined not to let anything stand in his way. He would find his gift, then put it back unopened. At this point in his life, he just wanted the thrill of outsmarting his husband. He searched the kitchen from top to bottom (finding only several increasingly horrific things Jean assumed once had something to do with food at the back of their cupboards), stuck his head into the cavern of lost things that they called their cupboard under the stairs, peered under the couches, and shuffled through their bookshelves. There was nothing, not even a taunting note. That was unusual, Armand never missed an opportunity to be superior about his intelligence. They were usually along the lines of 'not here' or 'try harder', or Jean's favourite 'i thought you were supposed to be a detective'. But there was nothing. He paced their living room, ignoring the renewed suspicion from Gazette, and pondered. As Dr Seuss would say, he puzzled and puzzled until his puzzler was sore. The only conclusion he could come up with, was that he was looking in the wrong place. So, upstairs he went.  
______________________

The three guest bedrooms (for when Armand's niece or Jean's sister visited) were empty, save for the mocking notes Jean had been expecting. 'You used to be better at this, Jean' and 'this isn't the present you're looking for' were placed gently in his wallet to last throughout the next year. He spent a good hour in their bedroom, chasing down a glimpse of ribbon that turned out to be nothing more than Armand's presents for his blasted cats, and cursed a blue streak under his breath while giving the bathroom the cursory examination it deserved. That left only one room. The one Jean was hoping to avoid entering.

Jean stood before the closed door, cursing himself in his indecision. This was the only room in the house he was loathe to enter: Armand's office. It was the territory of the truly psychopathic occupant of their house (and despite what his men would say, he wasn't talking about Armand). Ludovic le cruel, Armand named him, and that was no exaggeration. He'd seen this cat take on pitbulls and come out the victor. This was the cat (although he'd never been able to prove it) that urinated in his shoes and ran off with his favourite Christmas decorations. If he wasn't so stubborn, Jean would have already retreated to the kitchen to drown his sorrows in a bottle of wine. But not this day! It was a matter of principle now; his honour was at stake. He would find that present and he would face the quadrupedal psychopath. Mind made up, he ripped open the door, and strode in. And that was where Armand defeated him. It wasn't immediately apparent, but the Red Menace had won again.  
______________________

Armand's office had been originally designed as another bedroom, which was why it had an inbuilt wardrobe. Jean didn't waste his time touching Armand's legal books (he didn't fancy sleeping on the couch after that argument), he made straight for the closet. Ludovic stared at him, a murder-inclined sphinx atop Armand's chiropractic chair. Jean glared back, a silent promise that they'd resume their duel for Armand later. Ludovic gave him a disdainful look Jean was sure he had picked up from Armand, and began carelessly licking his paw, as if Jean was now beneath his attention. Well that was fine by Jean. He pulled open the door, smirking at the bold 'NO' that fell out at his feet. And there it was. Perched precariously atop several old boxes of files (Armand didn't trust the cloud), was a beautiful sight. Deep blue wrapping paper emblazoned with snowflakes, a crisp golden bow - everything was exactly the way Armand had always wrapped his gifts. Jean couldn't resist. It was a fun fact that his men's predilection for impulsiveness actually came from him. Reaching up on the very tips of his booted feet, Jean managed to snag a portion of the ribbon. He gave an experimental tug to test the integrity of the box structure, only to shout in surprise as Ludovic sank his claws into Jean's calf. The boxes tumbled from their shelf, knocking Jean to the floor. Fortunately, the carpet was soft enough to cushion his fall, but nothing could have prevented the nosy cats from slipping in to see what 'the interloper' had done now. That was not enough for Jean's comeuppance. Oh no. Not content with being covered in the demons, the universe decided to play one final joke on him. Drifting as gently as a snowflake upon the wind, a scrap of paper fell to the floor beside him. Written in Armand's elegant cursive were the words 'very clever'. Jean cursed so profanely it would have made even his old comrades blush (and de Foix had been nicknamed Soap-mouth for a reason), a rich chuckle reaching his ears.

There was only one person in the world who would have the courage to laugh at Jean in this state. He shifted as much as he could, only to have his suspicions confirmed. Looking exactly like an older gentleman model, his husband leaned against the door frame, a demure smile on his lips. "Jesus Christ, Armand!" Armand tsked his annoyance at Jean's continued habit of taking the Lord's name in vain, but continued smiling demurely.  
"Had a productive day, my love?" The smug bastard wondered, coming to stand over him. Jean glared up at his husband from under a pile of Armand's infernal cats. That little shit Ludovic dug his claws in, while Soumise purred innocently as she wound her way around Armand's ankles.  
"Did you have to do this, Armand?"  
"How else are you going to learn to wait for Christmas, my dear?" Armand wondered, smugness dancing in his voice. Really, it was lucky he was handsome - otherwise he'd be taking up permanent residency on Alphonse's couch until Christmas.  
"I thought you were supposed to be with Athos." Armand didn't so much as blink at Jean's accusation.  
"It transpired that he neglected to buy a suitable present for Milady, he had to leave immediately." Jean glared at him again, until his mind latched onto another point.  
"How did you sneak in here without me noticing?"  
"Jean" Armand chided, shaking his head as if Jean were as cretinous as he accused his men of being. "You were too busy cursing me to notice that I came home." Jean just glared at him until Armand called his demons off.  
___________________

Some hours later, once Jean had cooled down (read, yelled at his men for something incompetent they'd done - in this case, Porthos instituting a poker tournament between the Musketeers and Armand's 'Red Guards' which he then cheated at), Jean heard the sound of keys. He got up off the couch, ignoring Thisbe who promptly claimed his warm spot, and frowned at Armand. His husband was standing by the cloakroom, getting ready to go out. ""What's going on?" Jean demanded, and if his tone was slightly hysterical, well it was only to be expected after the day he was having. By all rights, Armand should have come after him so they could indulge in some nice afternoon cuddles while listening to orchestral Christmas music. Armand leaned forward and kissed his cheek, smiling that 'Jean you are an idiot but I love you anyway, God knows why' smile.  
"Well, I was going to suggest going for a walk together through the Christmas market, but if you'd rather sulk, my love..." Armand let the sentence trail off, pulling his red coat on again. Jean kissed him just to shut him up. Then, Jean snatched his leather jacket off the hook. His husband blinked slowly, as if confused why Jean was pulling on his own outdoor wear.  
"Come on, beloved" Jean smirked, enjoying Armand's disorientation. "You're going to help me buy gifts for my men." Armand put up a token resistance, but by the time they reached the market, he was more than happy to allow Jean to hold his hand while they ambled along. And no matter what gift Armand had bought him, nothing could ever have beaten that moment; the continual and perfect reminder that he had this terrifying genius for his very own. And he always would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Christmas Decorating (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bookstore au prompt.
> 
> The Musketeers should never be allowed to decorate anything ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typical (for me) implied Trevilieu and Milathos.

There are some people who would say that rivalry is healthy, that it helps with creativity, with invention. Those people had clearly never seen the Garrison at Christmas. For ten months of the year, the Garrison (a small yet rather wonderful bookstore) coexisted somewhat peacefully with the coffee shop across the road. This had something to do with the fact that the respective owners of the shops were married, while their general managers were likewise matched. However, that peace was strained during the holiday months, especially December. December was often called the silly season, for the Musketeers it was more akin to the batshit insane season. Their cordial relations with the coffeehouse inevitably led to most, if not all, of the Musketeers being personally blacklisted by either Richelieu, Milady or Jussac.

The thing was, the day started out well. Carolers sang by the street corner, the air was crisp with the promise of snow, and d'Artagnan's head was full of thoughts of the gingerbread from Eminence. Bitter rivals they might be during the festive season, but God could Cahusac bake. He ambled down the street, absently listening to the Carol singers be critiqued by none other than his boss's husband, absently humming along to their passionate, if off key, rendition of Oh Come All Ye Faithful. As he crossed the street, waving a besotted greeting at Constance in the window of the House of Bonacieux, something suspicious caught his eye. The usual decor of Eminence was a kind of elegant comfort; long couches, armchairs, dainty coffee tables, and so on. Today, however, fake snow glistened in the windows, seasonal centrepieces rested on every table, quiet Christmas carols played from the speakers, and everywhere you looked there was such an array of tasteful decorations that it looked ready to go as a venue for a seasonal photo shoot. Professional decorators could not have done a better job. And that, as far as a certain young Gascon was concerned, took the biscuit.  
_______________

D'Artagnan had had enough. He forgot all about his gingerbread daydreams, re-crossed the road and stormed into the Garrison, almost certain that steam was coming from his ears. "They've done it again!"  
"What?" Athos asked, peering up from the accounts. D'Artagnan was too incensed to notice that Athos didn't seem to actually care.  
"The kid stopped staring at Constance long enough to notice that the red bastard put up decorations" Porthos called, his voice echoing from the stock room.  
"We had an agreement!" D'Artagnan shouted, hands balled into fists by his sides. "Milady promised-"  
"Anne has a competitive streak a mile long" Athos sighed, tired of explaining this to his colleagues. It wasn't particularly fair, but they did tend to blame him for whatever mischievous indiscretion his wife had committed at any particular time. "We all knew she wasn't going to keep her word." D'Artagnan's face fell comically.  
"But, the contest, the honour of the Garrison-" Aramis emerged from the stacks, Porthos drawn out as well as if by some magnet. Those two always had been on a weird sort of wavelength.  
"Porthos, my friend" Aramis began, slamming a stack of books down on the counter. "I think it's time we told him."  
"He's just a kid" Porthos protested, his dark eyes twinkling wickedly. "He's not ready to know the secret." Athos stood and leaned against the counter, shaking his hair back from his forehead.  
"For as long as there has been a Garrison across from Palais-Eminence, there have been our annual Christmas competitions" Athos announced tiredly, cutting through the duo's fun. "It has been a decade. We won only once, and that was during the brief span where Anne was working here."  
"That was during the Rochefort debacle, wasn't it?" Porthos remembered, scanning books into the system. Aramis nodded thoughtfully.  
"You know, the Captain never did say what made Richelieu get rid of him."  
"He was stealing his recipes" Athos replied, ignoring d'Artagnan's blank look of confusion. "And Treville bought him a cat."  
"Richelieu brought that damn thing in here once" Aramis grumbled, rubbing his nose in absent memory of his allergies. D'Artagnan shook his head, as if shaking off the inane turn the conversation had taken. There was business to attend to. The honour of the Garrison was at stake!  
"If we've never won by ourselves, it's just because I wasn't here" d'Artagnan boasted, puffing his chest out. "I was the best at decorating, Father always said so."  
"Eh, we've got nothing better to do" Porthos shrugged, reading the idea in Aramis' eyes. Their resident Casanova grinned right back, strutting over to the back of the store.  
"Captain!" Aramis called, sticking his head around the door to Treville's office. "We're closing early!"  
"It's ten o'clock in the morning" Treville sighed, emerging with a knowing look on his face. He turned pointedly to Athos. "You're in charge while this madness is going on. And as for the rest of you" Treville fixed a stern glare on his employees. "You're lucky that Armand and I have plans."  
"Enjoy the rehearsal, Captain" d'Artagnan chirped, grinning brilliantly. The Captain wasn't the only one with PLANS. He could see it all so clearly in his head. It was going to be perfect.  
___________________

It wasn't perfect. It was so far from perfect that perfect was laughing while all d'Artagnan's plans enjoyed swirlies in high school lavatories. He would be the first to admit that possibly it hadn't been the best idea to eat several boxes of chocolates and put sleeping pills in Athos' coffee. But, for all d'Artagnan's tremendous affection for his friend, he was the biggest party pooper he had ever met - and he'd met Richelieu. So, while Athos slumbered away in the office, the mice (in this case, the remaining Inseparables) most certainly came out to play. Thinking it a brilliant idea, and guaranteed to make Milady smile to see Athos outsmarted (they had an unusual relationship), Porthos called Milady to borrow their leftover decorations. Not only would it save them money, but the Red Guards did have immaculate taste on the whole. Strangely, Milady orchestrated a small convoy of boxes into their shop, smiling politely the whole time. In hindsight, the first clue that not everything was as generous as it appeared should have been the wicked smirk on Milady's face as she dropped off the decorations. But, by that time, they had already consumed their bodyweight in sugar, so they weren't exactly at their most observant. They just grinned like loons, and thanked her for her trouble (not thanking Milady led to the kind of tongue-lashing that made Treville look like a rank amateur). Once she was gone, it was but the work of a moment (or two and a half hours) to decorate for Christmas.

Long garlands of multicoloured tinsel wound around every shelf, piles of fake snow covered most of the space that should have been devoted to their Christmas window display (Porthos had been rather enamoured with the sound the can had made dispensing the snow, as well as how it glistened in the light). Lights were strung around the doors, the bannisters to the flat upstairs (if rumour was to be believed, not a place any of the Musketeers were willing to enter when Richelieu was around), and glittered from the borders of the valuable book cabinets. All I Want For Christmas Is You played cheerfully on repeat from the iPod station (to his credit, Aramis had been trying for Thank God It's Christmas), and there was such an assortment of Christmas paraphernalia that it wasn't immediately apparent if the Garrison was a bookstore or a Christmas decoration shop. Also, for no other reason than Aramis finding it terribly amusing, a twerking Santa Claus sat cheerfully on the counter.  
_____________________

Three hours earlier than expected, Athos awoke. His face was priceless as he took in the explosion of glitter and snow that had once been his place of employment. He knew without a shadow of a doubt, that Treville was going to blame him for this. And, by virtue of having the most Machiavellian man in France as a husband, his Captain was going to succeed in making his life miserable for the foreseeable future. Being, at heart, something of a secret dramatic, Athos stood with his back against the wall yelling for his treasonous colleagues to just shoot him already. It would undoubtedly be less painful than enduring Treville's revenge. "Don't be that way" Aramis grinned, not grasping the true horror of their situation. "So, Treville is going to tell at us a bit. We've survived worse. Remember the Christmas Richelieu spent in London?"  
"Vividly" Porthos replied, his fingers inching towards the candy canes on the counter. Athos glanced at the chaos, winced and rubbed his forehead.  
"You drugged me" he accused, part of him admiring their gall.  
"Yes" Aramis admitted, not at all guilty. "But now you're awake, you can help us!" He raised his eyebrows, gesturing around at the mess.  
"This isn't something I can help you with" Athos bit out, controlling his urge to smack their idiotic heads together. At least d'Artagnan had the decency to look guilty. "The only chance we have to avoid Christmas hell is suicidal."  
"Oh no" Aramis shook his head, backing away from Athos. "You keep your wife out of this. If she comes, everyone will know, and we'll forfeit the challenge!" Porthos inevitably growled his agreement around the stem of his fifth candy cane (Athos raised his eyebrow but didn't comment), and d'Artagnan screeched something that was undoubtedly a vehement refusal to involve Anne.  
"You do remember the last time we made the Captain angry" Athos prompted them, tapping his foot in irritation. Porthos blanched at the reminder.  
"Call Milady" Aramis squeaked, almost instantly sober. D'Artagnan frowned from one of his colleagues to the other. "But, the competition. Our honour-"  
"Is not worth working shifts at Eminence, while Richelieu is there" Aramis interrupted, enunciating each word as pointedly as he could. D'Artagnan chewed his lip, internally debating the pros/cons of his choices. In the end, though, there was only one thing he could say:  
"Call Milady. Whatever the cost, we'll pay it."

Milady swept through the Garrison in under an hour, turning the mess from Christmas vomit to a tasteful gingerbread grotto (which, it turned out, had been d'Artagnan's plan in the first place). Her smirk was present the entire time, after a short but furious whisper-argument with Athos, and the Musketeers began to wonder what her revenge would be. It turned out that they didn't need to worry about that. Her revenge had already been had. As she swept out on a wave of lavender perfume, she waved at the familiar figure of their Captain striding down the street towards them. Milady, as it turned out, had sent photographs of the mess to Treville. The Captain had then regretfully cut his date day short to deliver their dressing down in full Gascon fettle.  
___________________

The quartet stood shamefaced in front of their Captain, shuffling their feet. Treville opened his mouth, undoubtedly to continue to berate them, but they were interrupted by a smooth and amused voice.  
"This is the best this place has looked in years, Jean. We might have some competition at last." The Musketeers could see that it cost Treville something very dear to turn and face the imminent smugness on Richelieu's face.  
"We forfeit."  
"And the stakes?" Richelieu wondered, a hint of a smile appearing on his face. "You are aware of the consequences?" Treville looked as though he was being made to suck a particularly sour batch of lemons, but he nodded. Richelieu's face lit up, a glimpse of what he might have been as an eager young kid at Christmas. If the Musketeers weren't there, he might have kissed him. As it was, he just bestowed upon him the brightest, most brilliant smile the Musketeers had ever seen him wear, and kissed his cheek. "We'll go and choose one tomorrow?"  
"Yes, Armand" Treville sighed, his shrewd gaze catching sight of the smirking Musketeers. There was nothing they could've enjoyed more than to see their lecture diverted so spectacularly. Treville turned more fully to Richelieu, a smirk twitching his own lips. "Coincidentally, beloved, while we are getting your next cat, I think it is time we discussed those temporary workers for your cafe." The Musketeers all paled in horror, shouting their protests to deaf ears. Treville was already gone. The others turned dark glares on d'Artagnan.  
"It's all your fault!"


	5. Plotless Cuddling (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says. Sitting in front of the fireplace, and some cuddles eventually involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this is very good, if I'm honest, but I've caught one of those 24 hour colds, and this is the best I could come up with.  
> Basically an excuse for some Trevilieu cuddling. Definitely no real plot.

Celebrating Christmas differed from day to day. Some days, you could be inclined to go ice skating or strolling through a Christmas market. Others might be best suited to driving through the city, looking at the Christmas lights, or even spent in the company of friends. But, the nights Armand enjoyed the most involved nothing more or less than simplicity. Working tirelessly to meet his goal of makes Louis Bourbon the next President of France hadn't left him much in the way of time to spend with his husband as of late. Which was why tonight was so perfect. It was just him and Jean, a warm fire and no insufferable Musketeers or petulant future-presidents to interrupt them. To ensure this, Armand had gone to the extraordinary lengths of enlisting Milady to keep the Musketeers busy, while also turning off their phones - Jean might it be aware of that, but what his Chevalier did not know could not hurt him.  
___________ 

Logs crackled on the open fire, gentle Christmas music playing softly in the background. Armand settled on the floor, his legs curled around him and Soumise purring contentedly on his lap. Jean, his entirely too stubborn and handsome for his own good husband, was within a hairsbreadth of him, legs pointed towards the fire. Gazette pushed her head into Jean's leg, demanding attention which Armand knew Jean was never going to give. His brave solider was rather preoccupied at the moment. Jean had called him that lunchtime, waxing poetic about the Christmas cookies Porthos had gifted the Musketeers. Apparently, and Armand was perfectly content to take Jean's word on this, they tasted like heaven; light and fluffy and yet somehow perfectly crunchy too. Call him a Grinch, a Scrooge (he had had far worse said about him within the past day let alone his lifetime), but he disliked cookies with a passion he usually only reserved for Jean's incompetent yet strangely persistent men. That, however, did not stop Jean from indulging in more of the things as they enjoyed the rare quiet.

"Those things will rot your teeth, Jean" Armand felt duty bound to point out. Clearly Jean needed someone to remind him of such things. And, as Jean's husband, that someone had to be Armand.  
"Oh hush, Armand" Jean dismissed, helping himself to yet another cookie. Armand felt his nose wrinkle automatically. "It's Christmas." Jean grunted in approval as Gazette finally moved off to annoy Perreque instead. "Don't think I didn't notice you indulging in the vin chaud at the market the other day." Armand took in the familiar stubborn set to Jean's jaw and sighed. There was no way he was going to win this one - and it was honestly astounding how few he truly won. As it happened, the only battles he could ever recall winning against Jean involved his cats. He frowned, making a mental note to revisit that topic when he felt more argumentative towards his husband, and returned his attention to the spectacle before him. Jean was still waiting for an answer.  
"As you said, my love" Armand smirked "it's Christmas." Jean stared at him, idly wiping his hand off onto his trousers (it wasn't as disgusting as it sounded), a sparkle appearing in those brilliant blue eyes of his. Really, Armand had been hopelessly lost to Jean ever since he'd first seen them. A sound surprisingly like a groan escaped Jean's lips as he levered himself off the ground and on to their couch. Armand frowned, turning his head to peer up at the detective. "Jean?"  
"The floor's too hard" was Jean's reply. "Now stop pretending to be annoyed with me, and come up here and cuddle." As Armand saw it, he had two options; either he stayed on the floor and snuggled with Soumise, pretending he didn't like cuddling (which was a lie - he loved cuddling, especially Jean), or he could not. His head gave a throb, a warning that he had been overdoing it lately, and sealed his very easy decision.  
_______________

Soumise barely stirred when Armand placed her gently on a cushion, snuggling into the velvet as easily as she had his lap. No sooner had he relocated his dear Soumise than he felt unexpectedly weightless. Jean, never overflowing with patience (another thing his men mirrored him in), had apparently tired of waiting for Armand to join him of his own accord. Armand ignored his instinctive reaction to snap at his husband, instead giving in to what he had wanted to do all evening. He curled in against Jean's chest, his head resting on his shoulder (the one that had been shot in the line of duty), and took a deep breath in. Jean's usual leather-gunpowder scent was overlaid with Christmas spices and the faintest hint of almond essence. Armand turned his gaze to the lights twinkling on their Christmas tree, beautiful musketeer blues and festive reds casting unusual patterns on the dancing shadows from the fire. Armand felt Jean's arms wrap around him, holding him as tightly as they dared, warm lips pressing absently against his hair. The warmth from Jean's body was absolutely perfect, working with his exhausted brain to send him into that blissful state of not-quite consciousness. It was only a matter of time before he fell asleep (and Jean carried him up to bed so as not to wake him), but he intended to enjoy every second. The times like this were so rare; just the two of them, the crackling fire, and the beautiful lights on the tree. He turned, just a little, to smile sleepily at Jean. "I love you." Jean just smiled, his eyes lighting up brighter than the Christmas lights on the Parisian streets. He didn't need to say it back, they rarely did, but it was written in his smile, in the way he held him tighter, in the kiss he placed on his lips. Jean nuzzled a curl off Armand's forehead, breath warm against his skin.  
"Merry Christmas, Armand."


	6. Little Notes (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville is used to working late during December. This causes problems with his relationship. Little notes can sometimes mean a lot.
> 
> Also, Richelieu finally gets some flowers. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: little notes
> 
> I didn't see why Richelieu had to always be the workaholic. Obviously he is, but I think Treville would definitely take on the extra work so his men could enjoy the Christmas season.
> 
> For this one, they're not married. Still established relationship though.

Christmas was a stressful time of the year. Not only were the Musketeers coordinating with a Christmas toy drive for the local impoverished children in their off duty hours (it had been Porthos' idea, and a rather spectacular one at that), but it was becoming difficult to manage any semblance of a personal life. Jean had been long accustomed to his bachelor existence, allowing him to work late into the night without fear of repercussions. That unhappy existence had changed eighteen months ago, with the entrance of a certain infuriating, handsome politician back into his life. Last Christmas, Armand had been in New York, attending some sort of function for aspiring leaders of the world (Jean was extrapolating, knowing Armand's ambitions). This year, though, they had moved in together (they were too old to take things slow), and yet Jean forgot that he had something worth skipping work for. The first week, Armand had understood, being as busy as Jean on a daily basis. But, as December wore on, so Armand's patience thinned. Last night, after Jean had worked past midnight again, he'd come home to find Armand waiting up for him. It was a bad sign from the start. Not only had Armand been running on very little sleep as of late, but he'd also had to leave early the next morning for an urgent meeting with Milady (although exactly what she did for Armand, Jean preferred not to know). Their fight was short and brutal, and ended with Jean storming out and sleeping on the couch. At the time, it had seemed incredibly hypocritical of Armand to attack his workaholism and question his commitment to their relationship - but, with time to cool off (and Athos bluntly telling him to stop being a fool and go apologise), Jean realised that he had possibly been in the wrong. But so had Armand, and Jean was standing by that. However, that didn't mean that he hadn't possibly overreacted. So, it was rather sheepishly that he needed Athos' prompting glare, and left work early that night. He just hoped that Armand was in a listening mood.  
____________

On the way home, Jean stopped off to buy some flowers from the closest open florist. Armand loved receiving flowers, and it was the least he could do to apologise for making them both sleep on an argument. There was nothing he could do now but hope to find Armand in a forgiving mood. His partner (annoyance? Husband in all but name?) had destroyed the lives and careers of anyone who had stood in the way of his plans, Jean was under no illusions about what he could do to Jean's if the mood struck. And yet, there was no trace of the vindictive, scheming Red Eminence to be found. The house was quiet and still, even the infernal cats (only two but that was still one more than Jean could tolerate) were absent. That wasn't even the biggest change in the house.

On the hook he hung his coat, there was an unusual splash of colour. A bright yellow post-it note came away in his hands, Armand's flowing cursive reading simply 'Im sorry'. A bottle of his favourite brandy rested on the kitchen counter with a note saying 'pax?'. And that wasn't the last of it. When Armand apologised, he did it as he did everything in his life - as thoroughly and perfectly as possible. Honestly, Armand wasn't even here and he was making Jean feel guilty. Everywhere he went, Jean found little notes written on blue and red post-it notes. Some were merely clues to areas Armand wanted him to look, while others were too perfect for words. A drawing of a cat with several kisses at the bottom was stuck to the milk in the refrigerator, and tickets to a Christmas Carol service were nestled between two of Jean's favourite books. A sweet poem about how much he loved his eyes was settled on their washing machine in the laundry, while a box of Jean's favourite chocolates had been placed in every downstairs room with love from Armand. Every room he poked his head into, every place he checked, he found another note, each sweeter than the last.  
____________

'Fifteen years and I still love your smile' fluttered to the floor in the living room, making Jean roll his eyes. His smile wasn't anything special, not when compared with the likes of Armand's smirk or Porthos' warm and infectious grin. On the bathroom door he found: 'you should take a bath and relax, my love, your shoulder hurt this morning'. That one made Jean pause. Angry as he had been with him, Armand had still cared enough to notice the stiff way Jean had moved his arm. 'You are still as handsome as the day we met' was stuck to the photograph of the two of them at University that Armand had insisted on putting in the hallway. Jean quirked a smile; he doubted that. Handsome he might have been once, by average measures, but he was too scarred now; his body told the tale of a lifetime at battle on the streets of Paris. Naturally, Armand knew what he would think, and acted accordingly. A little farther along, Jean was ambushed with another bright blue note: 'I love every scar, each one brought you closer to me'. And really, how was Jean supposed to compete with the likes of that? He was a soldier at heart, his ideas of romance barely extended beyond flowers and candlelit dinners. He would have to buy out an entire florists just to demonstrate how much these little gestures meant to him. Even that would never be enough. Not to make him worthy of Armand.  
_______________

When he reached their bedroom, he found the entire door covered with notes. Each and every one read 'I love you'. It was easily a hundred notes, a hundred repeats of assurances of love. Jean's heart felt so full of almost burst. And the best bit? Armand was slumped back against the pillows, as if he had fallen asleep waiting for Jean to come home and find him. That terror Ludovic was nowhere to be found (undoubtedly relegated to the ensuite as Armand reluctantly agreed to for Jean's safety), but sweet little Soumise (a gift from Jean to Armand for his birthday that year) was curled up purring beside him. Jean crossed the room, perching on his side of the bed. Armand looked so young and innocent that Jean almost didn't have the heart to wake him. Almost. There was something about how fluffy his curls looked that made it impossible for Jean not to want to run his hands through them. And it wasn't just Jean, he'd seen people on the street shoot wistful glances at Armand's glorious hair. Jean smiled to himself, allowing his fingers to brush through the silky strands, gently but with a little more pressure each time. Armand blinked muzzily, leaning into Jean's hand like one of his cats seeking attention. "Armand" Jean called, his smile softening as Armand slowly focused on him. Armand froze a little, the tiniest hint of wariness flickering in his eyes.  
"Am I forgiven?" he wondered, that same worry hiding in his voice. Jean nodded, fingers itching to return to Armand's hair.  
"There's flowers in a vase downstairs" he murmured, knowing Armand would take that for the forgiveness it was. Armand smiled, reaching out to Jean. Post-argument, Armand was a snuggler. It physically ached to delay it, and not just for the uncertainty in Armand's eyes, but Jean had something to say. And if he didn't say it now, Armand would consider the argument over and never let Jean apologise. He put his finger on Armand's lips, smiling a reassurance. "I'm sorry. I'm a workaholic idiot when it comes to Christmas" he conceded, seeing no judgement in Armand's eyes. "I'm a fool. But I love you."


	7. Christmas Memories (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musketeer gathering at Treville's. Favourite Christmas memories are shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied Trevilieu and Milathos as always.
> 
> I tried to keep them as much in character as possible, but I don't know how successful I'm being. Probably not very.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this anyway though

With just over two weeks until Christmas, Paris was in overdrive. Lights adorned the houses and trees, Christmas markets sprang up around town, and relations arrived from God only knows where. In a quiet house in the banlieue of Versailles, the Musketeers gathered for an evenings festivities. Although an evening spent in the company of Armand Richelieu wasn't particularly high on their Christmas list, they were devoted enough to Captain Treville not to refuse the invitation. Aramis and Porthos technically arrived first, dithering on the doorstep long enough that d'Artagnan peeled into the driveway on his motorcycle. He too froze on the porch, leaning away from the door as Richelieu's voice drifted towards them. By the sound of it, he and their Captain were having one of their 'discussions', which often resulted in them being asked to leave restaurants, museums, picture theatres, and even once Treville's own police station. Fortunately for the trio, another car pulled up. Their backbone had arrived. Athos rolled his eyes at his temporarily cowardly cohorts and pressed a brief burst into the bell. "Your men are here, Jean!" Richelieu called, his shadow flickering behind the living room curtains. "If they harm my cats-"  
"They're not going to hurt your damn cats!" Treville snapped back, his expression forcedly polite as he opened the door. "Sorry about that" he added, rolling his eyes. That however didn't stop him from muttering "just don't touch his cats."  
"Trust me" Aramis replied, looking warily around him. "I don't intend to. Last time we were here, one of the things tried to kill me."  
"That is because my cats have excellent taste" Richelieu announced, appearing soundlessly from behind Treville.  
"Armand" the Captain sighed, looking almost done already. "You promised you were going to behave yourself." A smirk twitched Richelieu's lips.  
"Don't worry. I have work aplenty enough to keep me occupied tonight." His eyes sparkled as he glanced at Treville. "If they're still here at midnight, send them home, Jean, and come get me. I've got an urgent meeting with Louis in the morning." He smiled sadly. "I'll be no use at all if I have a headache tomorrow."  
"No later than ten, beloved" Treville replied firmly, seemingly ignoring the presence of his Musketeers. Richelieu inclined his head, sharing a chaste kiss with Treville.  
"Enjoy your evening." And with that, Richelieu was gone, a procession of cats following him - after they glared disdainfully at the Musketeers.  
_________________

For the first few hours of the gathering, they played poker and distracted themselves from losing with choosing the worst Christmas songs they could possibly think of. It was during the fifth repeat of the Royal Guardsman's Snoopy's Christmas, Treville's phone bleeped ominously. Shockingly, the music changed to peaceful choral carols, which resulted in another text and Treville smiling. After Porthos had all but won their shirts, and the deeds to their respective houses, in the seasonal poker tournament, d'Artagnan had the brilliant idea to refill their drinks and start talking about their fondest Christmas memories. Christmas, he argued, was the best time of the year, so they had to at least have one good memory to share. "I'll even start" d'Artagnan offered, turning his superpowered puppy gaze on them until they all grudgingly acquiesced. He spun them a grand and hilarious tale about the lengths his father went to just to conceal the fact that he'd bought d'Artagnan a pony for Christmas. "That horse was yellow" he laughed, tears glistening on his cheeks. "Buttercup I called her, and she was the best horse in the world." He smiled widely. "From that moment on, my father could do no wrong in my eyes. At least not until he grounded me for duelling a bully who called Buttercup a cow." His chest puffed out proudly. "I won though. He even apologized to her."  
______________

"My first Christmas with Anne" Athos announced, almost as if daring someone to make something of that. "My parents had refused to accept our marriage, and Thomas was on their side so they wouldn't object to him and Catherine, we had to spend it on our own. Neither of us had a clue how to cook Christmas dinner; the turkey ended up burnt, our vegetables were either raw or a watery mush, we almost set off a fire in our apartment. She gave me my watch, and I used the last of my inheritance to buy her a house, one she'd always wanted." He laughed, more of a slight chuckle than anything but from Athos it certainly counted. "We did burn that one down the next year, but that wasn't really our fault. We had nothing really but each other that first year." He downed his glass of wine. "That was a good Christmas."  
___________

"I remember the Christmas when I was sixteen" Aramis laughed, shaking his head at his younger self. "My friend Isabelle and I discovered my father's stock of brandy. He'd been saving it for a special occasion, possibly the day he expected me to announce my intentions to join the seminary. Anyway, we climbed up on to the roof, hid behind the chimney and started drinking. Every time the next door neighbor's dog barked or we heard our parents call for us, we took another drink." He laughed again, eyes lost in the past. "It must've been gone midnight by the time we climbed down. Dad knew what we'd done, but despite how drunk we were, he couldn't prove it, so he asked us where we'd been. Isabelle blurted out that we'd been practicing for our carolling, so we had to go around the whole neighborhood singing every night that Christmas." Aramis sobered, sadness glistening in his eyes. "That was the last Christmas we spent together before Isabelle's father moved them away." He rolled brandy around in his glass, then tossed it back. "She joined a nunnery, we keep in touch now. But it was hard for a while, when she'd gone."  
______________

"I don't remember many Christmases with my mother" Porthos began, his voice low and sad. "But every one was perfect. We didn't have much, we never did, but she'd make each one special. Even of we went without for most of the year, that one day we'd live like royalty." He shrugged and avoided looking at the lavish decorations Richelieu and Treville set out. "Or at least it felt like it." He smiled, almost as if he could see his mother before him. "Christmas isn't the same without Maman singing Christmas songs and baking. Her cookies tasted like heaven; all the kids in the neighborhood used to be envious of my mother's cooking. We never really had much, but when Christmas came around, I was the richest kid in France. Whenever I have kids, I hope I can share what my mother did for me."Porthos cleared his throat, shaking off the memories of his mother. "What about you, Captain? Any Christmas memories to share?" Treville coughed, his eyes reflecting empathy and sadness. Somehow though he managed a smile.  
____________

"I suppose one does spring to mind when you talk about a cherished Christmas memory" Treville allowed, pausing at the sound of movement from upstairs. "Armand's gone to bed" he muttered, frowning at the clock. It was later than he'd expected, nearly eleven. "The first Christmas when I was in the army, they allowed my unit leave for Christmas. I didn't particularly want to go back to Gascony, I'd only just escaped, but I didn't really have anywhere to go. De Foix offered me a spot at his house, but I only made it as far as Paris. It was twenty years ago now, when I was young and idealistic. I, uh, stumbled into a little cafe, tucked out of the way, hardly anyone there." He huffed a laugh. "In fact, aside from me and the barista, there was only one other person. Although I couldn't see who was behind the huge pile of books. Not at first."  
"Richelieu?" Athos guessed, knowing Treville far too well.  
"Armand" Treville agreed, unaware of the soft smile he was wearing. "I got to chatting with the barista, who shared some of the same ideals as I had, and Armand took offence at what he saw as a treasonous lack of loyalty in France. Somehow we ended up arguing politics, which as you know with Armand is guaranteed to be suicidal."  
"You got asked to leave?" Aramis guessed, laughter in his dark eyes. Treville chuckled.  
"Oh no" he corrected. "Armand wasn't Richelieu in those days. We got chucked out on our ears."  
"I would have paid money to see that, Captain" d'Artagnan announced gleefully. "Did you punch him in the face and intend never to see him again?"  
"You do realise they're married, d'Art?" Porthos checked, d'Artagnan throwing a cushion at him.  
"I said intend."  
"Regardless" Treville interrupted, sharing a look with Athos. "No, I didn't. Tempting as it may be sometimes, I've never actually punched him."  
"So, what happened then?" D'Artagnan demanded, eager as none of the others really were. Treville sighed, and wondered if he would have to be explicit.  
"We spent the next hour talking, which inevitably turned to fighting" his eyes danced wickedly. "Armand was wrong but he wouldn't stop trying to convince me, so I kissed him to shut him up. And the natural progression of such things, we ended up spending our first Christmas together."  
"Captain" Aramis chided, a similarly wicked gleam in his own eyes. "Not even before the first date?"  
"Those who live in glass houses, Aramis" Treville warned, smiling as the clock chimed eleven. "Now finish your drinks. Armand called Milady so you lot would leave at a respectable hour."  
_____________

A little over half an hour later, Treville stood by his front door, watching his men stumble through the snow. Milady was just visible through the windscreen, her shrewd (concerned?) eyes fixed on Athos' progress to the passenger door. Treville watched her lips move, trio of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan all but falling over themselves in their haste to pile into the car and out of the cold. It was perhaps the first time they had been this eager to confine themselves to Milady's mercy. Athos offered him a nod as the car pulled away, and then Treville was alone. Not completely, not ever completely. The snow was falling lightly around Paris, and he had all he'd ever wanted tucked up nice and warm upstairs. He sent a grateful smile to the heavens. All the Christmas memories they had, he planned on making many more. Starting right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if you are a fan of Snoopy's Christmas, or if you've never heard of it. I know some people haven't. It's big here in NZ though and you either love it or hate it, and I think Richelieu would hate it.


	8. Christmas Colds (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musketeers have colds. Treville takes care of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always have a cold at Christmas, which influenced this fic. I did try and be canon with the French cold medicine.
> 
> Probably not very good, but I do have a cold.

There were few things more miserable than being alone at Christmas. One of those things was running the small pieces of Christmas spirit Athos had managed to dredge up. He, like his fellow Inseparables, was somewhat under the weather. His eyes streamed, his nose ran, and he had a cough that would make any sane person spend the day tucked up in bed. However, he wanted it completely and uncategorically understood that this was not his fault. For once, neither was it completely Aramis' either. The inconsiderate person who was responsible for the current pandemic of colds in their department was d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan who had the bright idea to instigate a snow war between them that previous Sunday. Perhaps it was also something of Aramis' fault, as it had been his idea to use the grounds of their Captain's marital home as the venue for the First Inaugural Musketeer Garrison Snow War. Granted, Perruque had gotten revenge on Richelieu's behalf by almost clawing Aramis' scalp off, but Athos agreed that it was really Aramis' own fault. But that was not the point. The point was that Athos did not have a cold - and the current ill health of his team was not of his doing.

Athos' very sane, very logical reasoning was interrupted by a sound that was either a wounded bull cavorting through their department, or Porthos sneezing. Aramis shuffled past him, nose bright enough to rival Rudolph, only pausing to drop a new tissue box on his desk. The unmistakeable tang of Vicks hung around him, a testament to the extent of the Garrison medicine cabinet. At the desk opposite Athos' own workstation, d'Artagnan snored over his steaming mug of Fervex. To give proper credit to the caretaking abilities of their Captain, Treville had all but ordered them from the premises on several occasions. Unfortunately, aside from Athos, the Musketeers were currently enjoying their bachelorhood, and Anne wasn't exactly the type of woman willing to act like Florence Nightingale. Even if she was, she had been out of the city on urgent business for the past week. That meant that staying at the Garrison was their only real choice. As Porthos gave another loud trumpet, d'Artagnan startled awake, hot lemony liquid cascading onto his lap. "Captain!" Aramis called out, his voice coming out a congested garble. Even in Athos' own similar state, he had to reflect that his friend sounded like a child calling their papa. Treville came out of his office, took one look at the sorry state of his men, and made a phone call.  
____________

Sometimes the efficiency of his husband terrified Armand. In less than half an hour, he had turned their house into a makeshift infirmary for his insufferable men. In truth, as soon as Jean had informed him that they would be hosting his Musketeers (no consultancy involved), Armand's first instinct had been to call Milady. However, Jean had informed him that if he did so, he could look for hotels to stay in until the Christmas when hell froze over. Even his regard for Armand was clearly not enough to cut through his protectiveness of his men. That left Armand in a rather uncomfortable and unfamiliar role as a caretaker. If it didn't involve politics, Jean or his cats, Armand was rather out of his depth. So, when Jean stood him in front of the stove and said 'stir', Armand stirred. Anything to avoid having to interact with the germ-ridden detectives. At least soup was something he was capable of cooking; he had experience enough making it when Jean got sick. His husband bustled in behind him, boiling the kettle with a single-minded intensity. "Can you get me some mugs down, beloved?" Jean asked, gently removing the spoon from Armand's suddenly white-knuckled grip. He wasn't going to go in there. If he got sick now, Lord only knows what mess Louis would leave France in.  
"Fervex?" Armand checked, sliding the purple packet down the counter. Jean hummed, testing the soup.  
"Delicious as ever, Armand." It would have been absurd to blush at that, and Armand certainly did not. It was just a little warm by the stove is all. While he was attending to the fervex, Jean ladeled out soup into bowls for his men. "Take this through for me, will you?"  
"No" Armand replied stubbornly. Hadn't they gone over this when Jean invited the plague-infested miscreants into their house? "You didn't give me a choice over their arrival, Captain, but I do get the choice if I want to be infected or not. Surprise? I don't."  
"Armand" Jean bit out, nodding to the tray. "Help or hotel." The last time Armand had heard that particular tone in Jean's voice, they'd broken up for six months. Needless to say he didn't want a repeat.  
"If they utter so much as one word of this" Armand warned, picking up the soup laden tray. Jean's eyes rolled.  
"They wouldn't dare. And besides, they're all drugged on cold medicine, they won't remember a thing. Even if they do, they won't believe it."  
_______________

That much, at least, was true. The Musketeers were too groggy to even notice that Armand had been the one to deliver them their soup. Jean stood over his men, glaring until every last mouthful of the soup and cold medicine had been consumed. Then, he moved from man to man, checking temperatures, adjusting blankets, and in young d'Artagnan's case fluffing up his pillows and piling more blankets on top of him. "'anks, Papa" he croaked, eyes barely open. Jean glanced back at Armand (busy attending to some business for Porthos on his tablet) and smiled wistfully. He ran his hand through d'Artagnan's sweaty hair.  
"Go to sleep." Jean settled onto the floor between his men's makeshift beds, barely even noticing Thisbe happily claiming his lap as her pillow. Yes he still had work to do, but for now there was nowhere he was needed so much as at his men's bedsides. Some time later, Jean felt a nudge at his shoulder. Armand had folded himself to the floor beside him, half curling into his side. One of the spare blankets covered them, steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the table beside them. But that wasn't what captured jeans attention. Armand was smiling in near embarrassment, holding out a worn Christmas book.  
"Read to them, Jean" he murmured, spots of colour high on his cheeks. "Believe me, your voice helps." Jean looked from his blushing husband to his bleary-eyed but just-focused men and smiled. The things he would do for the people he loved. With a rather wistful look to the steaming mug, Jean opened the book and began to read.  
"T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring..."


	9. Hot Chocolate (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fluff. Basically just Trevilieu wanting to snuggle. And drink hot chocolate, which I don't think I actually wrote them doing. Oops.
> 
> Also, watching Christmas movies outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevilieu. For a prompt of hot chocolate.
> 
> I hope this makes sense. I should not write with a cold, but then I wouldn't be keeping this challenge I set myself.
> 
> Please enjoy.
> 
> While the film isn't specified, feel free to insert whichever your personal favourite Christmas film is.

It had been a good idea, romantic and sweet. Or at least Jean thought so. He wasn't in Armand's league of grand romantic gestures, but he had tried. It had taken him the best part of a week to organise it without Armand knowing. Although, with Armand in Belgium with Louis for the week, his task had been easier than he had expected. It just required rather delicate timing of their video calls. His men hard worked overtime, turning their blank canvas of a house into a beautifully decorated masterpiece. As a final romantic surprise, Aramis (who was unfortunately the best of Jean's men at romance, despite his reticence at having anything to do with Jean's love life) had suggested setting up an outdoor cinema, accompanying it with an array of romantic Christmas films Jean knew Armand would secretly enjoy but publicly hate. Jean, however, had a better idea for the showing. They had been married, oh fifteen infuriating years ago now, on a cold winter's night, not quite five years to the day since they met. And what better way was there to celebrate their coming anniversary than to watch their wedding video? At least, that was what Jean had intended. Unfortunately, Armand had called, apologising about the awful weather in Belgium and the likelihood he would be delayed another night. Jean couldn't blame him, Armand was good but he couldn't control the weather. No matter what his husband might want people to think. Still, the storm front was moving in towards Paris, and tonight was the only clear night forecast until Christmas.  
______________

The lights glowed soft and white behind Jean as he shuffled out of the kitchen door. There was no sense in wasting the evening, even if he would just be watching a Christmas movie all on his own. Athos and Porthos had lugged a couch out into the garden, the perfectly squishy kind that Armand secretly loved but loved to complain about ("they clash with the decor, Jean"). Jean settled himself onto it, shaking out the duvet he'd brought out to keep warm. Sadly, there would be no snuggling with Armand under the stars. Pity. He had been looking forward to some snuggling without even Soumise cutting in on his action. But it couldn't be helped. He wrapped himself up snug and warm, and started the movie. By the time he realised he'd forgotten the hot chocolate, he was too comfortable, and too engrossed in the film to be bothered moving. He thought, for a moment, that he could hear footsteps crunching in the grass behind him, but he dismissed it as a figment of his wistful imagination. It was working overtime - he could even smell hot chocolate too. Strangely, he wasn't imagining things.  
_____________

A ridiculous 'Worlds Best Papa' mug (a gift from his men for Christmas the previous year) was pressed into his hands, while soft, dry lips brushed over his cheek. "You look wonderful, my love" Armand breathed, something akin to coming home in his voice. "Tired but wonderful." Jean craned his head, gaping at the sight of Armand standing behind the couch. He couldn't comprehend it. Not how ordinary Armand looked in his casual clothes and Christmas sweater, the gag gift mug Milady had given him held in his right hand.  
"How did you-? When did you-? You were in Brussels." Armand smiled, expression adorably flustered. In his free hand, there was a ticket stub. But that could only mean one thing. And Armand would never. Jean's amazement only grew. "You took public transportation. You?"  
"Of course I did, you idiot" Armand sighed, his eyes twinkling fondly. "It's Christmas, and I'd much rather brave the masses to spend it with you than waste any of our time together in a hotel with Louis." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Although, if I could ever entice you into a five star hotel..."  
"Behave yourself" Jean groaned, suddenly and vehemently grateful that his me had refused his invitation to join them that evening. "And I'm only letting you in here because you brought the hot chocolate." The look Armand gave him was one Jean had seen many times before - such utter and perfect disbelief condensed down to the minute raising of his left eyebrow. A part of Jean was prepared to be petty and refuse Armand the duvet, but when his husband curled his legs and tucked himself in under Jean's chin, well he was only human wasn't he? Jean wrapped his arms around the undeniably too-skinny body of his husband, allowing Armand to burrow in and steal his warmth. But to be fair, Armand had braved public transportation for him, and he had already stolen Jean's heart, name, life and reputation (in a good way, of course), so what was some warmth on top of that?  
"You're thinking too loud, Jean" Armand complained, voice muffled by either the duvet or the fabric of Jean's jumper. Probably Jean's jumper. "Be quiet, or I'll have your thoughts gagged."  
"You can do that, beloved?" Jean teased, ignoring the film entirely. Armand raised his head long enough to give Jean another of his famous glares. This one was usually reserved for idiots who insulted his intelligence. Strangely, Aramis received it most often, even above Louis.  
"I can do anything, Jean. I got you to marry me, didn't I?"  
"As I recall, I asked you." Armand treated him to one of his rare happy smiles, his whole face lighting up.  
"My point exactly." Jean rolled his eyes. Armand was ridiculous, but he loved him.  
___________

Some time later, the film finished, and they reluctantly relocated to their living room. Jean dug out their wedding video (he was still feeling rather sentimental over Armand), while Armand refilled their hot chocolate. And if they continued to cuddle and got silly enough on each other and the cocoa to murmur their vows again to one another, who was going to stop them? Christmas was the time he had met Armand, but moreover it was the season of love - and there was nothing in this world that he loved so much as he loved Armand. Luckily, the feeling was mutual.


	10. Advent Calendar/Sugar High (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three of our four Musketeers get sugar high. What's the worst that could happen? Whatever it was, Treville didn't expect this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through!
> 
> Really, thank you for continuing to read!
> 
> Okay, um, this one is basically just silly. The promt was Advent calendars but I interpreted my own prompt as sugar high Musketeers and the awful antics they might get up to.
> 
> As usual, Trevilieu with implied Milathos.
> 
> Oh, and no politics! Guaranteed!

The thing about advent calendars was, that - for the musketeers at least - they were supposed to be a reward. Not a bribe for being good until the next day, but a reward for not making their Captain go insane over the course of the day. What, however, was a Musketeer captain supposed to do when his idiotic miscreants decided to ignore that particular reward system? Jean would love to say that Armand didn't always have to be right, but even caught up in the midst of a paperwork clean out, his men were finding new and creative ways to turn Jean's remaining brown hair grey. How had they managed to do so this time, Jean had heard many officers ask. Well, it seemed that while Jean had been in the middle of an urgent meeting with the prosecutor for a very important case he and his men had just closed, Athos had been similarly called away to supervise am interrogation. There was no member of his team so adept at that particular skill as Athos. He could out wait anyone, and had been known to make suspects crack with just a well timed glare. Jean was very proud. Regardless, while he and Athos had been otherwise occupied, d'Artagnan had mentioned how bored he was. This, it turned out, had been something of a call to arms for Aramis (heaven forbid he actually do his paperwork - Jean was eager to know exactly how the Lothario would portray his need to flirt and/or seduce every young lady they came across over the course of their investigations). However things had progressed after that, the results were undeniable.  
____________

Empty Advent calendars, candy cane wrappers, and unwashed mugs littered the desks belonging to Jean's favourite detectives. There was not a trace of sugar left in their squadroom - even Jean's jelly beans vanished from the glass dish on his desk. Ordinarily, he wouldn't mind the mess - as long as his men got their jobs done, most of the time he couldn't care what state they left their workstations in. Unfortunately, today Jean found himself minding. In fact, he minded very much. This wasn't because of the mess itself, nor even because they had completely disregarded his inspired rewards plan (he could hear Armand laughing about this one already) - it was simply and precisely because he wasn't paid enough to deal with this. Criminals, tough cases, long hours, sometimes wanting to throttle Armand; all those things he was paid enough to deal with. What he considered beyond his pay grade, was currently metaphorically bouncing off the walls of their squadroom. It had stopped being literal ten seconds ago, when d'Artagnan had noticed Athos and proceeded to cling to him like a limpet. Jean frankly didn't want to know where Aramis was, especially not after witnessing Porthos spontaneously offer piggyback rides to everyone over their announcement system. It was only small comfort that he was in the courtyard with the children from the department daycare centre.  
____________

Athos caught Jean's eye, silently pleading with him to come and help. If the situation wasn't so dire, Jean would have found the expression on his face comical. Athos clearly had no idea how to deal with the clingy affection of d'Artagnan, and his befuddlement was absurdly amusing to see. Jean would have gone and helped his friend, but he had something far more pressing to deal with. Aramis stood proudly in the entrance to their squadroom, his arms wrapped octopus-like around a very familiar figure. Garbed in a rather dashing black suit and long red coat, Armand could have just stepped off the front cover of GQ. Jean wasn't sure what it said about him that not even Armand's expression (threatening imminent homicide) looked out of place in that mental image. It was only a testament to Armand's affection for Jean that Aramis hadn't yet been forcibly removed from his person or thrown into the nearest cell. Armand didn't like people touching him, although the truth was often more akin to the fact that Armand didn't like people - Jean being the only exception.  
____________

You know the feeling like watching a car crash in slow motion, a kind of catastrophe that you longed to stop but knew was going to happen and have disastrous consequences. Jean had that feeling as he watched - in mute horror he might add - Aramis raise a hand and brush through Armand's hair. Perhaps once might have been acceptable, but not when he continually did so. Fuelled by either protective rage or concern for Aramis' continued existence, Jean sprinted out of his office towards his husband. It was then, of course, that he realised Aramis was babbling at Armand. "I mean, I definitely still hate you and everything, but has anyone told you how fluffy your hair is?"  
"Jean informs me regularly" Armand replied, raising his eyebrow at Jean. If he stepped rather gracefully away from Aramis' grabby hands, well it was only to save him driving home and bringing Ludovic to deal with him. "I take it this is the emergency?" Jean nodded, mortified on his men's behalf. He was almost certain that he was silently pleading with Armand not to kill Aramis. "You couldn't have phoned Milady, save me from getting fondled?"  
"Milady has me blocked" Jean muttered, glaring at Athos. Unfortunately, the lieutenant was still trying to pry a surprisingly clingy d'Artagnan off his lap. He looked singularly unsympathetic with Jean's plight. Armand smirked knowingly.  
"Hasn't she forgiven you for the drunken escapades of your men yet, my dear?"  
"Aramis threw up in her handbag, and d'Artagnan ruined her reupholstered seats." Jean bit back his next scathing retort and sighed. "Please, beloved, can't you do something?"  
"I can do many things, Mon Chevalier" Armand replied, a wicked glint in his eyes. "I could have them arrested, although the irony of that happening in a police station might cause a few unwanted headlines. I could have them shipped off somewhere they'll never be heard from again, but you're rather too fond of them for such extreme measures." Armand inclined his head regretfully. "However, if you were relying on your men to fear me, my love, need I remind you that Aramis just tried to snuggle me like a teddy bear?"  
"You're right" Jean growled, the mortification of the moment abandoning him. He didn't particularly disagree with Aramis that Armand was perfect to cuddle and his hair was divine, but he was Jean's to snuggle with - not Aramis'. "I'll kill him."  
"Jean" Armand laughed, suddenly reminding him nothing so much like the impulsive young legal student he had been when they first met. "If that doesn't work, I'll call Milady!"  
_________________

Armand let Jean chase Aramis around the department for about ten minutes, enjoying the effect cultivated by someone (Milady) playing the Benny Hill music over the intercom system. Athos, it seemed, had called his wife when the situation devolved beyond his control. Neither Armand nor Milady were particularly inclined towards saving Aramis' skin. Just as Jean appeared to be considering a four-pronged approach to bring Aramis to his knees, Armand caught his husband's arm. "Enough, my love."  
"He-" Jean growled, about ready to leap upon his subordinate (currently bravely hiding behind Porthos).  
"Yes, my love" Armand agreed, noting how favourably Jean responded to the endearment. "And imagine how terrified he'll be tomorrow, knowing he has to come to work and face you." Armand tangled their fingers together, a rather cunning plan springing to mind. "But if we leave now, with Athos and Milady in charge, we can make dinner, and you can forget your paperwork, and you won't need to deal with your sugar high Inseparables again tonight." Jean turned to him, eyes impossibly blue.  
"What kind of dinner?" Armand smirked, he knew he'd won.  
"Home, Jean!"  
______________

Following Armand out the door was possibly the best decision Jean had made all day. Their dinner (takeout, eaten on their couch while watching telly) was made impossibly better with the notification on Jean's phone. He was - somehow - connected to the Musketeer social network accounts. Athos (although Jean saw Milady behind this) had posted a photograph of Aramis. If it was possible for a man to look horrified, digusted with himself, terrified, a little smug, completely shocked, in fear for his life, and in imminent need of therapy - that person was Aramis. It didn't help that Porthos had posted a video of him and d'Artagnan cackling madly either. Armand glanced at Jean's phone, something wicked and gleeful lighting up his face. Jean posted a picture of that - sue him, his husband was gorgeous. "I think, my love, that I might come around tomorrow for lunch. I know how your men love to see me of an afternoon." Jean could see the disaster in his mind, but all he could do was grin.  
"Midday, beloved, on the dot. Don't be late."  
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."


	11. Garden (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon era.
> 
> As usual, pretty plotless.
> 
> Just sitting in a garden, holding hands. And our Cardinal gets some flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there probably wasn't a wild flower section of the gardens at the Louvre, but there is in this fic.
> 
> Back to modern au tomorrow.

It had been a long, long day. First Louis had insisted on negotiating terms of a valuable and rather lucrative treaty by himself (which Armand then had to spend his entire morning fixing). Then, the insufferable Musketeers had provoked a fight with his men (who were supposed to be delivering a time sensitive report from one of his network), which had resulted in both he and Captain Treville being summoned before the king to account for their subordinates. Louis had commented on the lack of bickering between the Musketeer Captain and Richelieu himself, but neither of them had seen fit to explain themselves to the king on that score. Fortunately, the King had accepted it as some sort of further proof of Christmas miracles, and proceeded to babble about his plans for the upcoming Christmas meal. Treville had seen the increasingly glazed look in Armand's eyes, and had made his excuses, bringing the King back to his afternoon schedule. When Armand finally had been able to escape, he had been faced with a mountain of paperwork, urgent letters, and several visitors who needed his input on the upcoming festivities.  
_____________

By the time the sun was setting, Armand's head was threatening mutiny, and his hands shook too much to consider holding a pen for even a moment longer. For once, he obeyed his body's cues, and gathered his cloak closer around him. Technically, he should have continued working - after all, someone had to keep France from falling into ruin, and prevent the Musketeers from undoing all his good work. Frankly, he just could not summom up the energy. And at times like this, there was only one place he could go.  
_____________

There was a small copse of wildflowers deep within the gardens. No one knew quite where they came from, nor why they were allowed to stay, but nevertheless they remained. His cloak whispered along the ground as Armand slipped through the gardens of the Louvre. The courtiers could keep the perfectly manicured hedges and arrays of bright flowers, Armand loved the little wilderness the best. He perched, as elegantly as anyone in layers of black and red robes could perch, on a cold stone bench overlooking the gathering of flowers that grew as to their own wont. Someone, and Armand knew exactly who, had thoughtfully gathered a bunch together, tying the stems together with a short length of red cloth. He brought them to his nose, inhaling slowly. "Are these for me?" Armand enquired, directing his voice to the crunching footsteps approaching him.  
"Who else could they be for?" Armand's wonderful Captain asked, his smile brightening his voice. "It is only we two who visit here." Jean groaned as he sat beside him, stretching his legs out in front of him.  
"They're beautiful" Armand murmured, reticent to be vulnerable even around the best man in all of France.  
"You deserve roses and tulips" Jean replied, heedless of the fact that they were out in the open. "And yet you just want wildflowers."  
"You ruined me for any others, sending me wildflowers from your campaigns" Armand replied, accepting the blush on his cheeks for what it was. Anyone else but his dear Captain would put it down to the chill in the December air. Jean shook his head, muttering something about hardly being spoilt for choice when marching with their armies. Armand hardly cared why Jean had chosen to send him those; he had just been so very happy that he did. He was almost certain that it was all that kept him sane during those early days. Not that it was any easier now, with Jean the Captain of the bane's of Armand's existence. Speaking of. "It's late. Your men are going to miss you."  
"My men are too busy getting drunk on the wine you sent them, Armand" Jean pointed out, the leather of his gloves warm on his chilled skin. Now that he had noticed, Armand didn't pull away, allowing Jean to hold his shaking hands in his own. In return, Jean seemed perfectly content not to lecture him about working too hard. They sat there, in their own private paradise, watching the sun set and the stars rise. For now, in this moment, it was enough. It might never be perfect, not in this day and age, but they were the masters of making do.  
____________________

Armand sidled a little closer, enjoying the warmth from Jean's body. "You're coming for Christmas." It wasn't a request. Watching him as closely as he was, Armand saw the sparkle enter Jean's eyes, and the way his smile pulled at the scar on his cheek.  
"Of course I am" Jean agreed, looking away from the stars shining in the heavens. His eyes were far brighter and more perfect than any of those celestial bodies, his smile brighter than the sun. "It's Christmas." Armand rose to his feet, gently tugging Jean's hand to follow.  
"I'll walk you back to your Garrison."  
"No, you won't, Armand" Jean corrected, halting him by the entrance back to the gardens proper. "I'll walk you back to the Palais." Something wonderful danced in his eyes. "Then, we should have that discussion about cooperation."  
"That could take a while" Armand mused, picking up Jean's meaning.  
"It could indeed, beloved" Jean agreed, smiling another of those sparkling smiles. When he looked at him like that, Armand was powerless.  
"Dinner?"  
"After you, Your Eminence."


	12. Christmas Party (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Garrison Christmas Party.
> 
> Modern AU
> 
> Trevilieu with implied Milathos, Constance/d'Artagnan, Aramis/Adele, and Porthos/Alice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm one of those people who have never seen beyond the end of series 2, you get series 1 pairings. I am not sorry for this.
> 
> A few apologies:  
> \- my writing seems to be getting worse. I'm sorry  
> \- my humour and my knowledge of Christmas parties is awful - again sorry
> 
> On the plus side, only eight more to go
> 
> And once again thank you for staying with me

Nothing said 'overorder on the booze' like a Musketeer Christmas Party. Jean Treville had learned this through bitter experience. It wasn't just Athos' borderline alcoholism, or his men's joy at making Porthos do his party trick, that made the event so booze-worthy. Oh no, that would be too simple. The real reason was the fact that he had naively (in the beginning at least) made it the kind of Christmas party that his employees (often more akin to troublesome children he was the unwitting parent of) ought to bring their significant others to. Now, that was all well and good for a certain select few of his men. Aramis could bring the woman of the week (although he had been dating the paralegal Adele Besset for the past six months, so maybe he was finally settling down), Porthos usually brought his wife Alice (a charming young lady Treville wholeheartedly approved of), and d'Artagnan would undoubtedly be bringing Constance. As far as they were concerned, Treville could see no problems. But, as far as he and Athos were concerned, well that neatly explained the need for the alcohol. Madame de la Fere was, if Treville was blunt, a beautiful but utterly terrifying creature that had his men permanently both furious and scared. Athos absolutely doted on her, despite the fact that their relationship could often be a little antagonistic. And what about Jean himself? Well, Armand was difficult to say the least. In fact, Jean would go as far as to say that his men barely tolerated him and wouldn't be terribly upset if he were to be suddenly hit by a bus. Even Jean would be the first to admit that his husband was an insufferable, abrasive, Machiavellian, scheming, backstabbing genius - but then again, he was a politician. And, while Jean often liked to be grumpy about the whole thing, he would sooner cut off his own arm than give anyone the lasting impression that he didn't care for his husband. The truth was, you see, he absolutely adored him, worshipped him in fact. He would never be the best man in the world, but everything he did he did for the good of France (or Jean, or even occasionally Jean's own men, or Louis). But the fact was that Armand disliked his men as much as they disliked him. Jean had once attempted to hold his party the same day as Armand was scheduled to be at his law firms (back before his husband had succeeded in running for office), but after the awful rows that inspired (read: after he and Athos both spent the night on the couches in their offices), he had learned better.  
___________

This Christmas, Aramis had found them an outdoor venue for their party. In appearance, it wasn't entirely unlike a seventeenth century Garrison, which explained why Aramis had chosen it. A large buffet table lined one of the walls, while a portable bar had been set up at the opposite end from the entrance. To cater to the more refined tastes of some of his men's guests (and yes, here Jean was referring to Armand and Milady), he had hired a small live band. Or, to be more precise, Armand had hired them, and Jean knew better than to refuse him. That was how, one late Sunday evening (the only time he and his men had free from cases), Jean found himself out with the intention of socialising. Armand, unbelievably enough, was the sociable one, but here they both were.  
______________

Jean instantly spotted Athos by the bar, his lieutenant nursing a bottle of fine burgundy while glaring daggers at any unsuspecting colleague who came near hik with the intention of initiating conversation. Aramis and Porthos called out, moving over to join him as if they hadn't brought dates of their own. D'Artagnan was almost alone on the dance floor (aside from old One-Eyed Florian doing the electric slide by himself), trying to entice Constance to join him. Fortunately, Constance seemed more content to chat with Alice, even if doing so put her squarely in the conversational path of Milady. "Captain!" Porthos called, waving him over with his customary exuberance. Jean glanced at Armand, the politician smirking gently at him. Armand was a contradiction, Jean was used to it.  
"Go torment your men for a change" Armand told him, still smirking infuriatingly. "I'll behave myself for a little while."  
"Can I have that in writing?"  
"You don't trust my word?" Armand affected hurt.  
"I married a politician, what do you think?"  
"You have excellent taste" Armand replied, leaning down to kiss his cheek. Before Jean could so much as react, Armand smiled disarmingly. "I'll be with Milady. Go be with your men." Armand winked, strolling off as if he wasn't the bane of Jean's entire existence.  
"One day, I'll divorce that idiot, I swear" Jean muttered, knowing it was a like but comforted by the thought anyway. He joined his favourites, and remembered how to have fun.  
________________

For once, Jean had to admit that the first portion of the night was a rousing success. They had eaten their fill of the delicious food (never again would Jean doubt Milady's contacts), and mingled enough to be considered sociable. They had danced as much as they dared to classics like Rocking Around The Christmas Tree and Jingle Bell Rock, and Jean had even managed to entice Armand onto the floor during What Are You Doing New Year's Eve (Jean knew exactly what they would be doing, and it wasn't attending any parties, he promised you that). After the dancing portion of the evening had finished, he gathered his men around for a good old fashioned chat about old times. In other words, they hid in a corner and reminisced about their old campaigns. If anyone looked over, they would have thought the lot of them quite mad, bursting into laughter as often as they were. The antics his men often got up to would have made the best buddy cop comedy show on television. Why exactly Aramis had to hang onto a window in his underwear while on a case was still something of a mystery, but Jean knew with enough alcohol Porthos would cheerfully embarrass his friend soon enough. As they rehashed the time they were forced to go in undercover as a male burlesque troupe, Jean drained his brandy. If he had to hear this story one more time he would probably go insane. If he wanted insanity, he had a husband perfectly willing to drive him there anytime he liked.  
___________

Around ten o'clock, Adele sought them out and made her excuses, citing a busy workload over the coming days, while Alice thoughtfully offered her a ride home. She knew as well as Treville did, at this point in time staying was at your own risk. Unfortunately, Armand had never managed to stay long enough to find that out. Traditionally, there had always been some emergency needing his immediate attention - Jean tried not to feel too grateful on that score. Tonight, however, Armand was suspiciously free and agreeable. He kept his company with Milady, and never so much as batted an eyelid at the noise coming from Jean's corner of the venue. Jean felt guilty at essentially abandoning him, and among his men no less, and spontaneously decided to make it up to him. Sneaking away was out of the question, but his men were so inebriated they didn't even notice that he led him onto the dance floor and proceeded to kiss the life out of him.  
_____________

Things would have been perfect if the evening had ended there. Alas, it could not be a Musketeer Christmas party without Porthos being called on to do his party trick. Jean had made the mistake of leaving to see off some of his employees who had to get back to their babysitters, and when he returned all hell had broken loose. Porthos had his gun in his hand, and fruit had exploded all around the courtyard. Jean normally wouldn't have given a figgy pudding about that - it was all part and parcel of an evening with his Inseparables - but for one small but very crucial reason. Armand had been caught in the explosion. Armand looked down at the mess of cantaloupe on his suit, eyes blazing dangerously. Then, as suddenly as the fury came, it abated. He turned to Jean, a strange sort of smile on his lips. "You know, my dear, your men are lucky I love you." He strolled to the buffet table, selected a melon of his own and smirked. "My turn."  
"Armand" Jean warned, not in the mood for this. Unfortunately, his husband had perfected the art of not listening to him. He was irritatingly good at it.  
"And if I miss, well my dear, we both know there's not a court in the land that could convict me." And when Armand said it, he meant it literally.  
"Armand, it's Christmas" Jean began, a hint of pleading in his voice. "Just let my men win this once. You can go back to making their lives miserable next year."  
"But what about my Christmas present?" Armand wondered, mischief dancing in his voice. "Don't I deserve something for being very good this year?" He tilted his head, clearly hearing what he had said, and amended. "Well better than they have, at least."  
"I've already promised you a bloody cat, Armand" Jean growled, stomping up to his irritating husband. Fleetingly, he wondered if shaking the idiot would have any effect. The menace cheerfully ignored him, eeny-meenying his men with a rather terrifying grin on his face. Seemingly content with his choice - Aramis for all the surprise - the maniac approached the gun on the table. Jean felt an undeniable urge to scream. "Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, if you so much as lay a fingertip on that gun-"  
"Yes, yes" Armand dismissed, eyes rolling. "I'll be sleeping on the couch in a hotel for the next eternity." His eyes glinted wickedly. "But it'll be worth it." Jean's arms crossed, his 'do not mess with me' expression fixing on his face.  
"No cat."  
"But Jean." Jean was gratified to hear the petulance enter Armand's voice. "I liked this suit. You liked this suit."  
"I like all your suits Armand" Jean corrected, watching Aramis sidle slowly away from Armand. Jean didn't blame him, nor could he entirely blame Armand for wanting to 'accidentally' shoot Aramis. He probably had deserved it at some point. The fact remained that it was Christmas, and Jean hated the thought of all that extra paperwork during the holidays. "And if you shoot him, I won't be able to have as much of a holiday as we were planning on. If you don't shoot him, I might be able to swing an extra week." That got Armand's attention, he leaned infinitesimally closer to Jean.  
"A whole week, or one of the weeks where you call in every hour thinking that your department has disintegrated without you?"  
"Depends on whether you behave yourself or not."  
"You hate it when I behave, Jean" Armand pointed out, not incorrectly. Jean knew exactly how to respond to that, honestly he did. As ever, however, he just never got the chance to.  
_________

The loud ricochet of several gunshots silenced the entire Garrison. All four of the Inseparables blinked, covered in a mess of melon insides, juice dripping down their formal jacket. Aramis even wore a piece of watermelon skin as a little hat. Milady smirked innocently at the accusing glare Jean shot her. "What? Somebody had to do it." It said a lot about Jean's life that he was just glad it hadn't been Armand.  
_________

Later that night, tucked up warm and safe in bed, Jean rolled over. Armand was just slipping into bed, fresh from a much needed shower. His hair was a riotous mess of curls, making Jean's fingers itch. He caught Armand's hand and pressed a lazy kiss to his palm. "You know, beloved, I'm not sure if tonight was the worst Christmas party we've ever had, or one of the best."  
"Well" Armand mused, considering it. "On the plus side, you got to spend an evening with your men, who then got covered in blown up fruit. And nobody got arrested. On the downside, I also got covered in projectile fruit. Which I blame you for." Jean hummed thoughtfully, giving that the consideration it was due.  
"You're right, Armand. It was the best Christmas party we've had." Jean switched off the lamp on Armand's shocked face, perfectly prepared to face whatever repercussions would follow.


	13. "I love you" is a perfect excuse (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love you as the perfect excuse not to do things.
> 
> Trevilieu. Modern AU. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty short this time, but I think it turned out okay.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Armand Richelieu liked an argument as much as the next person. Possibly more considering he was a lawyer turned politician. There were times, however, when arguing with his dear Captain was about as useful as arguing with a brick wall - and the brick wall was less stubborn. Really it was just an ordinary day off from work. Armand was trying to get the Christmas baking completed, and his stubborn Gascon mule of a husband was hindering him in every way possible. First, he had the nerve to entice Armand into spending the morning cuddled up on the couch with his cats (a low blow by anyone's standards), then he had treated him to a rather romantic lunch in their favourite bistro, followed by a romantic stroll through the park. If Armand didn't know better (Jean was a truly appalling liar), he might have thought that Jean was up to no good. Fortunately Armand knew better. Jean was, for want of a better word, simply too lazy to be bothered fulfilling their plans. Jean infinitely preferred to spend his days off in the blissful state of contentment in doing nothing.  
________________

"I love you." Armand dried his hands, and turned to the hopeful, hovering presence that was his husband, hands on his hips and a disapproving frown on his face.  
"Stop saying that you love me just to get out of doing things, Jean Treville" Armand sighed, putting the list more firmly into Jean's hand. "Now, go and get those things from the market." He made a shooing motion with his hands, chasing his husband out into the hall. Jean smiled and pecked Armand's lips. The first was for the plea, the next few for enticement.  
"I love you." Damn that man. It should be illegal for anyone's eyes to be so twinkly.  
"I love you too" Armand relented. Really it was impossible for him not to. He steered Jean to the door, and lovingly pushed him out of it. "Now go and get my supplies." Armand was halfway back to the kitchen, when he heard the letterbox flap open.  
"I love you!" Armand rolled his eyes, but grabbed his coat and scarf.  
"You are definitely coming with me to my brother's Christmas Mass" Armand informed Jean, ignoring his husband's immediate and vehement protests. Listening to Alphonse's sermons was a kind of torture Armand had spared Jean from since the Captain had been foolish enough to marry him. Not this year though; Jean was being too annoying for that. And so were his men. Armand was aware how petty he was being, but he had never claimed not other be capable of pettiness.  
"I love you?" Armand stopped, turned, and pecked Jean's lips. As irresistible as Jean was, his reminders that he loved him wasn't going to spare him any further.  
"It's not going to work, my dear."   
"I thought it wouldn't, but it was worth a try." Jean grinned, entirely unapologetic. The light breeze toyed with his auburn hair - and it really was not fair that he was growing ever more ruggedly handsome while Armand wasn't. Jean frowned at him, peering at Armand's face. "What are you looking so grim for? I'm the one that's going to have to sit through Alphonse's sermons while you ridicule him on Twitter."  
"You're far too handsome to complain so much, Jean" Armand announced, spotting the shops up ahead. He smirked at Jean and strolled off, humming a cheerful carol.  
________________

Hours later, cuddled up warm in front of the fire, Love Actually's end credits were rolling on the television screens. Jean turned his attention to Armand, drowsing sleepily in his arms. "C'mon" Jean smiled, gently shaking Armand. "Time for bed. Before your cats claim my side again."  
"Mmm" Armand hummed, flapping a hand tiredly in Jean's general direction. "You go on up, I'll follow you." Laughter crossed Jean's eyes.  
"Move, Armand." Armand considered the walk upstairs, then looked at his husband and smiled.  
"I love you."


	14. Locked In A Store (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically what the title says.
> 
> Christmas shopping completed, of course the Musketeers got locked in the store. How will they get themselves out of this mess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever implied Milathos and Trevilieu. Also implied Alice/Porthos.

"Come do your Christmas shopping, Aramis said. Leave your phones in the car, Aramis said. It'll be fun, Aramis said." Athos leaned against a shelf, musing on the strangeness of being in a deserted store. D'Artagnan's complaints were perfectly justified, particularly in light of the way their afternoon had gone.  
"Would you stop complaining?" Aramis groaned, eyes rolling at his friend. "You got your shopping done didn't you?" Athos borrowed a leaf from Treville's playbook and came nose-to-nose with the nonchalant Aramis. It was worth it to see the momentary flicker of uneasiness cross Aramis' dark eyes.  
"We got shut in!"  
"Well, yes" Aramis admitted, scuffing the toe of his boot against the nearest shelf. "But aside from that, I think we can count the afternoon as a success."  
"Oh yes" Athos snarked, pacing away from the lunatic before he gave in to his urge to punch him. "What a rousing success!" He leaned against the opposite shelf, his glare perfectly matching the ones worn by Porthos and d'Artagnan. "I have plans tonight. Anne and I are having dinner with Thomas and Catherine. And you know how well Anne gets along with them without me there." It had been the one and only time they had met his brother, when he came to the station with Athos to bail out their respective wives. A situation no member of the French police force wanted to experience again.  
"In that case we're bound to be missed at some point" Aramis smiled, as if that would be a good thing. If his statement wasn't so utterly stupid, Athos might have felt sorry for him. As it was, he felt his face transform into another of its habitual scowls.  
"Anne will call the Captain, undoubtedly yell at him for keeping us working late" Athos pointed out, trying his very best to keep his voice as calm as his face was grumpy. "The Captain will probably be enjoying a nice night in with you-know-who. Need I remind you what tends to happen when we interrupt Treville's personal time with our antics?"  
"This close to Christmas, there's nothing he could do to us that would be that bad" Porthos offered, trying to look hopeful. It was a hard thing for any man to do, especially wearing a bright red knitted beanie - a present from his concerned wife.  
"What about Alice?" Athos suggested, wisely avoiding the naivety of thinking that Treville's vengeance would be powerless.  
"Visiting Rome for work until the eighteenth" Porthos sighed, sounding rather grim.  
"So we have to wait here, like damsels in distress until one of our wives or girlfriends or one night stands discovers that we've gone missing?" Athos did not like the sound of that. He did not like the sound of that at all.  
_______________________

Another ten minutes later, they were still clustered in the middle of an aisle, their purchases littering the floor around them. And, unsurprisingly, they were still locked in without a single method of communication with the outside world. When they got out of there, Athos was never going to listen to another of Aramis' idiotic suggestions ever again. He conveniently forgot that he promised himself the same thing after his stag party, but that was beside the point. What was the point, was that it had now been quite some time that the had been locked in, and none of them had any clue how to proceed from here. As a true measure of how truly, creatively in the muck they were, Porthos and Aramis had retreated into a growl/glare form of communication that apparently only they could translate. Athos, in return, tried to ignore the impending sense of doom at the thought of exactly how much his wife was going to make him suffer for standing her up tonight.  
______________________

"Hold on" d'Artagnan announced, clearly prepared to be the reasonable one. Athos wasn't sure whether to credit it to exposure to Athos or Treville. "Let's look at this logically. What are our options?"  
"Well I've got a stuffed banana" Athos snarked, gesturing to the bin of toys next to him. "And in a pinch, we could assemble some furniture." Porthos guiltily moved off the kitset bookshelf he'd bought and scowled. Aramis ignored Athos, tapping his fingers to his chin in a move oddly reminiscent of Anne.  
"Porthos could break down the door." Athos raised an eyebrow, the picture of disbelief.  
"And have us all face charges for wilful destruction of private property, again?" Aramis flushed hotly.  
"That was an accident!"  
"You drove Richelieu's car into the Seine" Porthos grumbled, glaring darkly at the pouting figure of his best friend. "We were lucky Treville talked Richelieu down from killing us and into dropping the charges."  
"I think the guest room to cattery conversion helped our situation somewhat" Athos muttered sourly, remembering the uncomfortable situation all too well. Even as it was, it had gone on all their personal records, Treville had still nearly killed them, and they'd been split up for a month. On reflection, it had been the most peaceful month of Athos' career. Pity the Captain had realised that and punished them further by reuniting the quartet.  
___________________

For a group who spent as much time together as the Inseparables did, they were running out of things to say to one another. Porthos and d'Artagnan were discussing (arguing) whether or not Die Hard constituted a Christmas film, Porthos was for and d'Artagnan against, while Aramis appeared to be humming This Is Halloween in the next aisle over. What was Athos doing at this time? He was staring at his watch, calculating the exact amount of time they had before the younger la Here's would be arriving at his house. Currently, he had half an hour. "Anne is going to kill me."  
"Blame Aramis" Porthos suggested, not looking guilty in the least for throwing his friend into the tender mercies of Milady.  
"It won't do any good" Athos sighed, resigning himself to his fate. "She'll blame me for agreeing to go out when I knew we had dinner plans." A wry smirk twitched his lips. "If you could shoot me at your earliest convenience, I would be grateful."  
"And Aramis afterwards?" Porthos grinned, perfectly in time for the man himself to rejoin them.  
"Oi!" Aramis protested, holding up his hands in the gesture of coming in peace. "There must be something we can do."  
"Treville always credits your inspired thinking" d'Artagnan said, smiling ever so slightly in pride. "Why haven't you dreamed up some inspired plan for getting us out of this mess?" Athos turned to their youngest member, ready to silence him with nothing more than the power of his best disapproving frown. Unfortunately, the child had a point. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust off the bottom of his leather jacket.  
"What if we use the landline and call for help?"  
"The landline?" D'Artagnan sounded as disgusted as if Athos had suggested willingly cooperating with the Red Guards, or worse Rochefort's division.  
"It is a viable form of communication, young one" Aramis teased, momentarily forgetting that he was currently number one on all their shit lists.  
"I don't know any numbers, they're all in my phone" Porthos added, choosing to ignore Aramis' attempt at humour. "And even if we did, where would we possibly find one?" Athos shook his head in disappointment at them all.  
"You are useless to me."  
_________________

They (or to be more precise, Athos) found a rather dusty but functional landline in the managers office. Nevertheless, he switched on speaker phone while he dialled the only number that came to mind. Mobile numbers he was useless with, but he still had a few old fashioned telephone numbers memorised. The coming hell was made worth it by the way Aramis blanched as their call was answered. "Yes?" Richelieu answered the phone like he answered everything in his life - like he was doing them a favor by allowing them to intrude upon his precious time. In the background, they could hear Treville chiding him for being rude.  
"Richelieu" Athos said, taking a deep and fortifying breath in. "Could you please tell the Captain that Aramis locked us inside a store, and we need someone to come and let us out?" Whatever reaction Athos had been expecting, it wasn't warm and wickedly amused laughter echoing off the office walls.  
"Oh, Jean? My love. Your men are a gift that keeps on giving" Richelieu announced, followed by the sound of scuffling as the receiver changed hands.  
"What have you four done now?!"  
_________________

What happened next? Athos would prefer not to dwell on it. Suffice it to say that Treville came personally down to let them out, accompanied not only by Richelieu but Milady as well. You can draw your own conclusions from there.


	15. Rescue Me From Kittens - (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when you have too many kittens? Call Richelieu of course.
> 
> Or, wherein Treville gets climbed on, and Richelieu gets persuasive. Kittens are at stake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Jean being rescued from kittens. But, well, Richelieu wouldn't be so gallant as all that. Not without alterior motives.

Carols ringing through the air, cheerful babbling conversations, endless repeats of the same few songs. Those were some of the sounds that defined Christmas. Oh, but by far the best sound of Christmas was laughter. Nothing sounded so wonderful as warm, bright, unspeakably cheerful laughter. And, since it was Christmas, Armand was willing to concede that nobody's laughter was so infectious as that of a young child. Little Marie-Cessette du Vallon clapped her hands in delight, laughing and smiling, and cooing cutely at anyone who would listen. After weeks of futile searching, Porthos had reluctantly approached Armand for assistance in choosing the right kitten for his sweet little daughter. After all, when it came to cats, well, there was no one within Porthos' acquaintance that could advise them so well. And who could Armand have brought with him to approve of the choice of kitten other than his dear Jean. But why was Marie-Cessette laughing you might ask? Well, aside from sheer delight at her new kitty, Jean was rather a picture.  
___________________

Sprawled on the carpet of the du Vallon house living room, being claimed by two tiny little scraps of fluff (one ginger, the other white as the freshly fallen snow), Jean glared at Armand. Of course, it would be only too easy for him to move, but seven years experience with Armand and cats had at least taught him the value of caution with the adorable little creatures. Armand remembered fondly the one time Jean had accidentally dislodged Ludovic from his lap - Ludovic had retaliated by sinking his claws into Jean's leg; his two men, both fighters. However gentle Jean was being with the kittens, didn't translate with how he was glaring daggers at his dearly beloved. "Listen, you maniac" Jean growled, ears flushed a bright red. "If you don't stop laughing-"  
"You'll do what my dear?" Armand wondered, his tone full of playful innocence. "I find it hard to take your warnings seriously when you're being defeated by a pair of kittens."  
"Just get these beasts off me!"  
"I would love to, my dear" Armand replied, tone dripping with insincerity. "But you appear to be having far too much fun. I would hate to deprive you of playtime."  
"When we get home, you are sleeping in the cattery!" Armand frowned at Jean, momentarily uncertain if he might have taken it too far. Deep in those wonderfully blue eyes was the tiniest little sparkle - Jean was as furious with Armand as he could be, given the circumstances, but he still loved seeing Armand happy. That had never changed.  
"I thought you said he had cats!" Alice sighed, glaring at Porthos. At least Porthos had the sense to look sheepish. Armand felt momentarily sorry for him - solidarity between two people with spouses that were annoyed with them. Then again, Jean was perpetually annoyed with Armand, it was one of the founding principles of their relationship. Much like Athos and Milady, but Armand didn't want to dwell on the similarities between their marriages.  
"I have cats" Armand corrected softly, smiling at the ridiculous picture his husband made. "Jean, well, they have him. As you can see for yourselves." A devious gleam entered his eyes. "He controls them about as well as he does his men."  
"Armand!" Entirely unable to resist the temptation, Armand smirked and blew a kiss to his dear Captain. Jean's glare promised retribution, but it was worth it just to see him like this. He really was magnificent, especially when covered in cats. Armand's two favourite things in the world.  
_____________________

"What are we going to do with all these cats?" Alice cried, looking quite at the end of her tether. "We only wanted the one. Not three!" She wrung her hands, glancing down at the suspiciously still figure of Jean. Armand looked at the two kittens currently tormenting his husband, and smiled. Oh, he loved them already. Jean did too, Armand could tell. And if he didn't, well he would soon. All would be well.  
"We'll take them." Jean's head snapped up so fast he dislodged the kitten claiming his forehead as a throne. Horror was written on every handsome line of his face. Armand cheerfully ignored him.  
"Armand!"  
"Pay no attention to him" Armand continued, blithely steering Alice into the kitchen. "Jean loves cats, really."  
"We have five of the furry menaces already! Armand? Armand, listen to me. We do not need any more cats!" Armand smiled serenely, waving at his husband before he sat down with his back firmly to the living room.  
"He doesn't mind." Alice raised a pointed brow, nodding back into the living room.  
"It sounds as if he does."  
"Jean loves to complain, but when I'm not looking he dotes on Soumise and Gazette as much as I do."  
"But-"  
"Any other topic in the world, Jean will usually win our arguments on" Armand sighed, trying not to laugh at the bellow of laughter from the living room. Porthos was growing on him. "When it comes to cats, however, Jean always loses."  
"Always?" Alice looked doubtful. Armand nodded, fixing Alice with the kind of stare he used to convey his utter seriousness about the consequences when Louis was trying to circumvent his advice.  
"Always."  
"If you can convince Captain Treville" Alice smiled, no doubt seeing the stubbornness in his eyes. And, he was already renowned as a cat-lover throughout Paris. "Then you can take them. Please." Armand laughed, looking up to see Jean scowling furiously at him from the floor.  
"You just want to see me convince him" Armand smirked, unable to deny anything to the woman who was allowing him to take care of two perfect little kittens. "Very well."  
_____________________

Armand sank to his knees on the floor beside Jean. Porthos was distracted on the couch with Marie-Cessette and Noelle the Christmas kitty. So it was only Alice that would be witness to what was to follow. One at a time, Armand gently removed the kittens from Jean's head, then his chest, running his fingers through their soft fur. He ignored his husband completely, taking no notice of the way Jean grumbled and sighed and made a huge production out of finally being free from the 'furry menaces'. The little ginger girl curled up contentedly on Armand's lap, tiny eyes drifting shut as she fell asleep. Armand tried not to feel too smug at being deemed the superior pillow, and turned his attention to the enchanting white fluff in his hands. This little kitten reminded him of nothing so much as Soumise on the Christmas morning Jean had first given her to him; so tiny and trusting, and so utterly perfect. He could almost hear the fire crackling, Mantovani on the stereo, Jean's nervous babbling. For a moment he was so very young and so very in love again - not that Jean didn't always make him feel that way. And he had his persuasion. Armand let everything he was feeling - all the love and contentment, the nostalgia for that Christmas all those years ago - seep through his eyes and into his voice as he finally deigned to give Jean his attention. "Jean. My dear. My love. My husband. My own." Jean was glaring at him, his expression clearly saying that he was unbelievably furious with Armand but could deny him nothing. He never could, not when Armand didn't want him to, not when Armand was like this. "I love you. And we're keeping the kittens."  
"It would seem so." The raw gascon fury lasted maybe ten seconds longer, then vanished as if Jean could sustain it no longer. Resigned he remained, but there was an answering love in those gorgeous eyes that warmed him like nothing else. Porthos and Alice wisely vacated the room, leaving Armand alone with his husband.  
"Jean-"  
"You know I love you, you idiot" Jean growled, talking over him as if Armand had never spoken at all. "If you wanted the cats, you could have just asked."  
"You hate my cats-"  
"I love you. Now shut up, and try to look sorry for manipulating me."  
"Oh Jean" Armand smiled, certain he looked like a lovestruck fool. "I don't deserve you."  
"No, but I don't deserve you either" Jean replied, leaning in for a very quick kiss. "Now, come on. Let's say goodbye to our hosts and go home." His eyes sparkled wickedly, matched by the grin he was wearing. "You've got some apologising to do, and I'm not going to let you off lightly."  
_____________

As they were running out of the door, Jean turned and called back. "Come round to ours for Christmas dinner. We'll be hosting the entire family!" His revenge was going to be very sweet. "Armand doesn't mind!" If, as it turned out, Armand did mind, well he could deny Jean nothing. They never could, not when it came to each other.


	16. Secret Santa - (Musketeers & Trevilieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Santa.
> 
> Treville is a bit down, the Musketeers do secret Santa as an elaborate way to cheer him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had something else written for this, but I hated it when I came to post it, so I stayed up until 4:30am writing this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

There are some sentences no one alive should utter. How hard can it be? It'll be fine. What's the worst that could happen? I slept with Anne Bourbon. At Christmastime, another sentence is added to the list. It inspires dread, terror and chaos wherever it is heard. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan didn't get that memo (and Athos was absolutely certain he had circulated it everywhere throughout the department).

It was a cold December Thursday in Paris, and the Musketeers were gathered for lunch in their favourite place: Lemay's. The Inseparables were up to their usual mischief, laughing and joking, when the door opened and their Captain walked in. To say Treville looked upset would be doing the man a severe disservice, on the outside he looked the same as ever. But his men knew him too well, they could see that he was miserable. Consequently, he was making them miserable as well. Of course, leave it to d'Artagnan to cheer them up in the most scarring way possible. "We should do secret Santa!"  
"No." Athos' reply was swift, but alas not final. D'Artagnan was nothing if not perseverant.  
"But-"  
"No."  
"Ath-"  
"No." Athos finished the debate by folding his arms and glaring. He could outstubborn anyone, with the possible exception of Treville. Unfortunately, there was no such thing as solidarity among Musketeers.  
"It's not the worst idea the pup's ever had" Porthos mused, taking another bite of his sandwich.  
"That would be not shooting Athos when he had the chance" Aramis grinned, using his menu as a shield. That didn't stop a glob of mustard sploshing into his coffee. "Heathen."  
"Just remember, I could have shot you many times myself" Athos replied, gratified at Aramis' subsiding glare.  
___________

It was probably for the best that Treville walked past them with his lunch to go (probably another sad salad in an attempt to convince them all he was perfectly fine). What definitely wasn't for the best, was the brilliant grin d'Artagnan favoured their Captain with. "Captain! We're going to do secret Santa!"  
"No you're not" Treville sighed, a kind of weariness about his posture. "Especially not if it's just you four."  
"We can do it" Aramis sniffed, offended. Treville raised an eyebrow in a painfully familiar expression of disbelief.  
"There has never been a secret between you that you haven't blabbed within seconds" their Captain pointed out, entirely correctly but not altogether fairly.  
"Then you'll join and keep us honest" d'Artagnan announced, as if Athos hadn't just texted him that very insane idea.  
"It's not as if I have anything better to do" Treville agreed, sounding as if he had surprised even himself. Athos tried not to be too charmed at the instant joy that suffused d'Artagnan's face. Aramis scrawled their names on the disposable napkins (not particularly environmentally friendly but useful for their purposes) and dropped them into Treville's hat. Their Captain was one of the few people who could pull off a fedora in the twenty first century. One by one, they drew names from the hat in order of seniority, then they went their separate ways. If they wanted to get this done before Christmas, they had to get a move on. Fortunately, Athos knew exactly what he was going to do for his giftee.  
__________________

After a reasonable amount of time had been given to find a suitable gift, the evening of the exchange arrived. It was December 23, and as the person with the biggest house, it was Captain Treville who had been selected as host. The fact that he was also the most responsible and least likely to forget the exchange was happening was also a contributing factor, but it was kinder to say it was because of his house. The fact that it was technically his and Armand's house was neither here nor there. What mattered was that they gathered there late on the Monday evening, fresh from a long day at work. Jean, whose mother had tried to raise a gentleman, set out the requisite refreshments (Armand might have emailed him a detailed list of what not to do), and the Musketeers let themselves in.  
_______________

It was a sight the house had seen many times before. Jean occupied a couch all by himself, several cats keeping a watchful guard over their master's spouse. D'Artagnan sprawled on the floor by the fire, a brightly wrapped package held protectively on his lap. Porthos and Aramis shared the other, marginally less comfortable, couch. A large and obnoxiously wrapped present was on the floor before Porthos, while Aramis tapped at his pockets every few moments as if making sure whatever he had brought was still there. Finally, Athos reclined in what technically was Armand's chair, Ludovic staring at him, tail waving dangerously every now and then. Like Aramis, Athos appeared empty-handed, but Jean saw the nervousness in his posture, nervousness that said Athos was uncertain about the way his gift would be received. "So how's this going to work?" D'Artagnan wondered, looking hopefully around the room. "Who goes first? Do I go first? Does Athos?"  
"I'll go last" Athos announced, refusing to say any more than that. Jean waited for his men to start protesting (there was nothing they enjoyed so much as disrupting other people's plans - many of Jean's attempted date nights could testify to that), but they never uttered so much as a syllable in curiosity.  
"I'll go first" Aramis called, almost too eagerly. "Happy holidays, d'Art." From his pocket, Aramis withdrew an envelope, throwing it like a frisbee towards the youngest Musketeer.  
"Tickets?" D'Artagnan frowned, pausing as he looked closer at the gift. "Airline tickets? You're giving me a holiday?"  
"Not just you" Aramis shrugged, staring past d'Artagnan and into the fire. "Constance too. You've been wanting to go somewhere special to propose. Now you can." D'Artagnan tackled Aramis in an embrace, grinning like a loon when they parted.  
________________

On the way back to the fire, he dropped his suspiciously floppy package into Athos' lap. "Merry Christmas, 'Thos." The snowman patterned paper didn't stand a chance in the face of Athos. It surrendered gracefully, falling to the floor in two neat pieces. Jean hid a smile at the stunned picture Athos made. D'Artagnan had come to him, asking for advice, and Jean had been only to happy to comply. Some months before, Athos had lost his favourite leather jacket in the line of duty (specifically in an incident involving paint, cow manure and the father and husband of one of Aramis' lady friends), and he had been in mourning ever since. This, however, was beyond even Jean's expectations. The leather was soft and supple, of a dark charcoally-blue, and had attached pauldrons engraved with the fleur-de-lis of the Musketeer unit. Athos, a man of few words, said none, but the nod he offered his friend spoke volumes. D'Artagnan nodded back, eyes misted, and busied himself with his hot chocolate rather than meet anyone's gaze.  
__________

Aramis' present sounded like it was breathing. In fact, it sounded like it was snoring. Which was a strange thing for a present to do. Especially a present from Porthos. Aramis, being Aramis, didn't wait for Porthos to explain - he ripped the paper right off and tossed the box lid somewhere in the vague vicinity of the window. Out of the box, Aramis pulled a tiny scrap of fur. It wasn't a kitten, Jean was thankful for that (he'd seen too many kittens in his lifetime, especially around Armand), but it was an adorable little puppy. Her paws were too big for her body, and her tail wagged furiously. Such a beautiful, lively little thing she was. Porthos cleared his throat nervously and attempted a smile. "Serge was supervising the litter for the next batch of recruits. And she didn't make the cut. They said she was too reckless. And I remembered how much you love dogs, and how empty the house is since I married Alice, so-" Whatever else Porthos was going to say was silenced by the bear hug Aramis gave him. Jean wasn't quite sure if they were hugging or wrestling, but as they didn't knock anything over this time, he decided to let it go. Aramis sat back down and promtly started cuddling the puppy, his eyes as soft as Jean could ever remember seeing them.  
"She's perfect." Jean smiled wistfully, remembering another Christmas where those words were spoken. Soumise chose that moment to jump onto Jean's lap, butting her head possessively against his stomach. The silly thing was probably worried that Jean was going to replace her with one of the enemy - or worse, replace Armand with one of the enemy. Neither of which would ever happen, not just because he took his vows as seriously as Armand did, but because he loved the stupid old fool. Love was certainly in the air tonight. Aramis looked besotted with his new puppy, and Porthos looked chuffed he'd made the right decision.  
_________________

As for Porthos' present, Jean was confident he would like what he had chosen. The package was long and thin, wrapped plainly in golden paper. Porthos tore the paper off, sending it flying on to the top of the television (Jean pretended not to notice), and then blinked. "Captain" he breathed, voice choked with emotion. Jean's old ceremonial sword rested perfectly in his large hands - the safest place in the world for it. No other words really had to be said, it was clear in their eyes. Porthos was like a son to Jean, and he always had been. There was no one in the world he would rather see treasure the sword. It belonged with Porthos; a symbol that family wasn't always blood, that family was anything and everything they chose. Porthos had chosen the Musketeers, and Jean loved his men like sons. Following Athos' example, Porthos just nodded, conveying everything that needed to be said. Jean nodded back. Sometimes words just got in the way. It was Christmas, the emotion was what counted.  
__________________

With his men's presents given, Jean knew what would be coming next. Jean had made it very clear to his men that the only present he wanted was for them to turn up and behave themselves for one evening. He had had that, and he expected and wanted nothing more than that. Athos, he knew, would at least respect his decision even if he didn't agree with it. He even let him think that until the clock hit eleven and it was time for them to go. Jean stayed by the living room door, futilely trying to corral Armand's cats and stop them attacking Aramis (Ludovic had already destroyed a perfectly good set of tires, two coats, and a briefcase in the twelve weeks, four days and seven hours Armand had been away). That didn't stop him from seeing his men off, each one leaving lighter and happier than when they had arrived. "Captain" Athos paused by the door, a strange smile on his face. If Jean didn't know better, he'd swear Athos looked nervous. "Wait five minutes, then answer the door. I had your present delivered." Before Jean had the chance to say he didn't want a damn present, Athos was gone, off home to the wife that loved him and the knowledge he'd get to spend Christmas with her. Oh how Jean envied him. Armand had been cagey about exactly when he'd be able to call on Christmas, and had even cancelled their video call tonight. Jean hoped he wasn't working too hard, Armand always did.  
________________

Precisely five minutes later, Jean was startled from a quick nap by the ringing of the doorbell. "I have a gun and I am prepared to use it!" Jean yelled, expecting carol singers. Without Armand there, it wasn't as fun to let them sing and then criticise them. Standing outside their door, suitcase beside him, and looking as exhausted as he did handsome, Armand managed a smile. Jean couldn't believe his eyes, and wasn't about to start talking to an apparition, so he just stared. Stared in hopeful disbelief. He didn't have to speak first, Armand always knew what to say. "Merry Christmas, my love." There was only one way this made sense, and if it was true, then Athos deserved a pay raise.  
"You're my Christmas present?"  
"Would you like the receipt?" Armand wore his typical self depreciating smile, a kind of armour as if he thought Jean had somehow had a change of heart in the last few months.  
"Shut up, Armand." They had survived wars apart, a few months for Armand's ambitions was nothing in the scheme of things. "How could you possibly have arranged this?"  
"Your men are an ungovernable faction, but on occasion they do have a good idea."  
"But the UN, your career?"  
"It was dull and on the other side of the world from you" Armand replied quietly, not a trace of regret in his face. "Louis has been begging me to come back since I left. And, aside from that, I was miserable without you."  
"So was I" Jean admitted, enjoying the flash of amusement in Armand's brilliant eyes.  
"I know. Your men said. Often." Those wicked grey-blue eyes sparkled. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"  
"I'm not going to kiss you on the doorstep for the whole neighborhood to see" Jean growled, yanking his husband inside. Once the door was shut, however, well Jean was only human. He kissed him until he could barely breathe, then kissed him some more. At some point, the frantic kissing turned to exhausted cuddling in front of the fire. Armand's cats were doing their token ignoring of him, allowing Jean to have him all to himself.  
"I love you." Armand had to have been absolutely exhausted from the travelling and the planning, and the kissing, but he still managed to sound as honest and affectionate as a newlywed on their wedding day. Jean didn't resist the temptation, he kissed him again.  
"I love you, you reckless fool." And if he happened to tighten his hold on Armand even further? Well, he had no intentions of letting him go ever again. Athos did always give the very best Christmas presents.


	17. Tree Decorating - (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tree decorating in the Trevilieu houshold. With lights that are possessed, and a nice dose of sleepiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few more to go. Thank you for sticking with me.

To decorate or not to decorate. The eternal Christmas question. In the household of Armand Richelieu and Jean Treville, it was more of a question of when to decorate. Even with Armand being on track to be the next Prime Minister of France, it wasn't their schedules that made the timing difficult. What was it, you might ask? The answer was as simple as it was infuriating - Musketeers. In the past three nights off Jean had managed to get, they had conspired to be arrested for drunken belligerence, had broken into Armand's legal firm on a dare, and had ended up in the emergency room after attempting to recreate the end of Die Hard from the second floor window of Athos' house. It was a miracle they'd thought to put the trampoline under the window, else he might have been forced to fire them for sheer incompetence (Armand had suggested doing that anyway, but the suggestion was a weekly thing anyway). It was Friday the twentieth by the time Armand had had enough. He lured Jean home under false pretenses, then confiscated his phone and turned it off. There would be no interruptions tonight.  
____________

"I love you, Lord knows I do, but could you please just make a decision already?" They had been at this for an hour and a half now, and Jean was starting to slowly drive Armand insane. Not only could he not put two different decorations next to one another (there was so much blue on his tree, it was hurting Armand's eyes), but it took him five minutes to choose the next blue monstrosity to go on the tree.  
"This is important, Armand" Jean replied, not even looking at him. "It has to be perfect." Armand rolled his eyes, reaching past his husband to pull a blue (oh the surprise) ornament from the box. It looked lovely next to the shimmering red ones Armand had already decorated their tree with. As he turned back to Jean, Armand smiled and pecked his cheek.  
"You're choosing the next decoration to go on our Christmas tree, my love, not our next cat." Jean's reply was swift and decisive.  
"We're not getting another cat."  
"Mmm."  
"You're not listening to me." Armand turned back to his husband, smiling at him in the way that meant he loved him but he thought he was being entirely unreasonable.  
"You're not being reasonable." And there it was. Jean threw his hands up in sheer exasperation, an ornament sailing out of the room with Ludovic in hot pursuit.  
"Not reasonable? Armand, we have five cats. Five. Ludovic regularly destroys my shoes, my leather jackets, and my tolerance. Perruque sleeps on my head. I'm not even going to get started on Pyramus and Thisbe. And Soumise-"  
"Yes, Jean" Armand invited, danger smooth in his voice. The little lady in question rested happily in Armand's arms, making him look even more like a better version of a Bond villain than ever. "What pray tell is wrong with my Soumise?"  
"Nothing at all, beloved" Jean replied hastily. Sometimes his husband could be a very smart man. Armand loved him, even when he was being an idiot. "She's perfect. Unfortunately, she lulled us into a false sense of security with the rest of the menaces."  
"The decoration, Jean."  
"All in good time, beloved" Jean snapped, running his hand through his hair. He blew out a long breath and sighed. "I'm sorry. You do the tree, I'll attend to the lights."  
"Are you sure?" Armand frowned at the ominous black box Jean had thrown them in last year. If it was possible for a box to exude smugness, this box did that. "After last December, you swore-"  
"I'll do the lights" Jean repeated, striding over to the box like it had insulted one of his men.  
"Very well, my love" Armand sighed, not in the mood to argue with Jean any further. Besides, this would give him the perfect opportunity to... correct the placement of the decorations.  
_____________________

Armand hummed contentedly along with the cheesy Christmas soundtrack Jean had selected, not even batting an eyelid at the fifth repeat of Thank God It's Christmas. The tree was looking beautiful now, if Armand did say so himself. Bright strands of golden tinsel wound around the tree, while shimmering baubles of red and blue rested here and there, perfectly placed so as not to clash. Silver fleur-de-lis' hung in the few gaps Armand found, completing the picture perfectly. All that was missing was the lights. Their cursed lights. Jean's mother (a witch who had always hated Armand) had given them to him as a Christmas housewarming present several years before. And every single year, the things never came out without complaint. Armand had been tripped, electricuted, and even nearly strangled by the things before Jean had taken over, swearing that he would not be bested by lights. Armand frowned, remembering that he hadn't heard so much as a peep from his husband since he wrangled the lights out of the box. Worried, he set off in search of Jean. He found him in the kitchen.  
_____________________

"On the plus side, I untangled the lights. On the downside, we need new ones." His husband had taken a pair of scissors and had chopped the lights into tiny pieces, then it appeared as if he had taken a hammer to the remains. Armand blinked, forcing his tired eyes to register what had happened. Before he could decide against it, he was laughing. Not the polite laughter he gave in response to Louis, but full bodied laughter. He doubled over, hand braced against the back of a chair for balance, gasping for breath between his giggles. Jean came around to stand before him, a worried frown fixed on those handsome features. He was much more comfortable to brace against than the chair. "Armand?" The concern in his husband's voice made Armand look up again, drawing in deep breaths in an attempt to get himself under control.  
"Oh Jean" he smiled, reaching out to caress his face. "We'll get new lights tomorrow. Let's just go to bed."  
"But, the tree, the decorating?" Armand kissed the frown from his face, then promptly swayed forward (not swooned, he never did that) into Jean's safe embrace. God, he was exhausted. Jean's Inseparables had had the run of his office all day - the only way he had been assured of getting Jean to himself tonight.  
"Tired. Bed. Cuddle." It was one of his better speeches.  
"You're adorable when you're tired" Jean confided, sweeping him up into his arms just like Armand had wanted. Still, this merited some examination.  
"Kitten?" Jean's chest shook with his laughter, even as he pressed a kiss to the crown of Armand's head.  
"You're not that cute." Oh, Armand begged to differ.


	18. Christmas Morning - (Treville/Richelieu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas morning. The first official Christmas Treville and Richelieu will have spent together since Treville left the army.
> 
> What present lies under the tree? Why is Jean convinced that this will be a Christmas morning to remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas fluff with Trevilieu.
> 
> I've marked this work complete now. I know it's a little early, but the plot bunnies have run their course, and my schedule has gotten too hectic to write. I'll probably post one final chapter on New year's Eve, but until then...
> 
> I hope you enjoy this last installment.

Armand and Jean had missed many milestones in their relationship. Their first month anniversary, Jean had been away with his unit. Their first anniversary, Jean had spent bailing de Foix and Belgard out of jail in another country. Their birthdays had largely been spent while Jean was deployed. They had known that coming in. And Armand had accepted it, or at least he had made his peace with it some time ago. Now, however, Jean had left the army for what was sure to be a promising career with the French police force. That meant that this was their first official Christmas together. Five years they had spent together so far, but this Christmas was going to be special. How did Armand know that? Well, aside from the fact that every day he spent with Jean was special, his stubborn Gascon had been insisting that this Christmas would be one to remember since Halloween. Armand already knew that it would be; Jean was home from war, and safe (as safe as his danger magnet of a love could ever be) in Paris with him. That was the best present Armand could have asked for. But he wouldn't spoil Jean's fun by refusing anything else he might want to bestow upon him.  
___________________

Bright and early on Christmas morning, Armand was awoken by a shaking to the left of him. Concerned it was another of Jean's nightmares, he turned cautiously in bed and reached out for Jean. He needn't have worried though. His brave Chevalier was laughing. "Jean?" The grin the captain favoured him with could have powered Paris for a decade. Oh, his lover was like a child on Christmas morning. Why was Armand only finding this out now?  
"Get up, my dearest love. It's Christmas!" Inspired by his own inner child to be a little shit, Armand gave a sleepy yawn and murmured something incomprehensible. Just to ensure his message hit home, he even snuggled back into his pillow, pretending to fall asleep again. "That's not going to work, beloved" Jean sang, pressing delightfully soft kisses to his lips until Armand deigned to open his eyes again. "This is our first proper Christmas morning together. Get up, please." Armand could never resist Jean when he made that face, the adorably pleading one. Then again, it would be truer to day that Armand could not refuse Jean anything. So, up he got, snuggling into his robe instead of the wonderfully warm duvets on their bed. Just for good measure, he was still Richelieu after all, he sent a half-hearted glare at his partner.  
"This had better be a morning that is worth my getting up early. I was planning on spending the morning in bed." Exactly what he had planned on enticing Jean to do while they were in there was implicit in his tone.  
"It'll be worth it" Jean promised, choir boy sincere. His eyes lit up like sapphires in sunlight, wide and hopeful, and eager to get the day started. Armand just managed to shove his feet into his slippers before Jean towed him bodily down the stairs.  
___________________

Before the door to the living room, Jean paused. If Armand didn't know any better, he would say that Jean almost looked apprehensive. However, the expression was gone before Armand could be certain, and the sparkling grin of before was in its place. "Do you think Father Christmas has been?" Armand rolled his eyes.  
"No, Jean" Armand replied drolly. "I doubt that very much."  
"Been bad this year, my heart?" Jean's eyes gleamed with his amusement. Oh how Armand adored him.  
"Terribly wicked" he agreed wickedly. "But all for the good of France." Jean laughed, rich and deep, and kissed him as if he couldn't help himself. When Armand frowned at him, wondering what that was for, Jean shrugged and kissed him again.  
"It's Christmas morning, beloved, I'm allowed to be happy."  
"You're spending Christmas morning with me, Jean" Armand couldn't help but remind him. "Most people would say that isn't something to find happiness in."  
"Most people are idiots" Jean growled instantly, wonderfully possessive. "All the better though. I get you all to myself." Armand blushed furiously and pretended he wasn't - it wouldn't do to give Jean the idea that he was suddenly good with words. What else was Armand useful for in their relationship then? If Jean noticed (which he did and thought him adorable) then he didn't say a word, he just smiled brighter and opened the door. "Merry Christmas, Armand."  
_________________

Due entirely to the fact that Armand was as popular as increased taxation, and Jean was only recently restored to Paris, there were only a handful of gifts under the tree. Neither of them minded a jot - the best gift was already seated next to either of them. Simply being together was enough. Armand might have gone a little overboard with his glee at finally having Jean where he belonged. Jeans presents consisted almost entirely of watches, leather jackets, Queen CDs, and anything else he could possibly think of that Jean might require for his new vocation. None of them, no matter how expensive, caused so much joy in Jean's eyes as the small collection of photographs Armand had saved from their earliest days until now. Jean had always been the sentimental one. Not that Armand was complaining. Before he could even process the motion, Jean had lifted him on to his lap and proceeded to kiss him so deeply and thoroughly it took him a good number of moments to remember his own name. "You like it then?" Armand gasped, still catching his breath. Jean looked at him as if he would quite like to kiss him again, but merely smiled softly.  
"Yes, Armand" he confided, tracing a finger lightly over the photo taken the morning after their first meeting (and the first night they had spent together). "I love them. Nearly as much as I love you, you impossible man." Armand blinked, Jean looked almost put out. "How am I supposed to top this?" Armand thought for a moment and then lit up.  
"Did you get me flowers?"  
____________________

Half an hour later, after Jean had torn Armand away from his beautiful new Christmas lily, Armand was surrounded by a pile of wrapping paper. New books, a wonderful antique letter opener, and music more suited to Armand's tastes had emerged from the detritus. It was more than Armand could have hoped for; it was all perfect. "I might have one more gift for you, beloved" Jean murmured, that hint of nervousness back.  
"Jean?" Armand frowned half reaching towards the stubborn gascon. Jean held up a hand and left the room, his footsteps pacing towards the back of the house. The laundry then. Smart, Armand hadn't gone in there since Jean confessed he broke their washing machine a week ago.  
"Close your eyes, my love" Jean called, tone very captainy. Armand frowned but did as he had been told (one of only a very few times he would ever do so without argument). With his sight muted, his others senses worked harder to pinpoint the exact moment Jean went from standing before him to kneeling on the floor. "You can open your eyes now, Armand." As he did so, he felt a weight settle into his hands. It was warm, and it was soft. Armand didn't look, not at first. He knew, hoped what it was, but-  
"Oh Jean."  
______________

Armand couldn't even form words. He just stared at the sweet little bundle of fluff in his hands. She was perfect. No, more than that, she was everything. Jean reached a finger out and stroked the downy fluff on the kitten's head. "Now this little lady and I-"  
"Soumise" Armand interrupted, smiling a little apologetically when Jean frowned in confusion.  
"What?"  
"Her name, Jean" Armand replied patiently. "Her name is Soumise."  
"Very well then" Jean agreed, shaking off the oddness of the situation. He continued smiling softly, lovingly. Amd how was Armand supposed to think when that was happening? It was unfair. Not unfair enough for him to want Jean to stop though, he was just registering his complaint. "Soumise and I have something very important to ask you."  
""If it's another kitten, the answer is yes."  
"Would you shut up and let me ask you?" Jean snapped, not really annoyed. Love and amusement sparkled in equal amounts in Jean's smile. Armand mimed zipping his lips, settling back against the cushions of their couch. It didn't occur to Armand until that moment that Jean was on his knees, specifically on one knee. But that had to be a coincidence. A man as good and wonderful and perfect as Jean would never, could never want to spend eternity in the bands of holy matrimony with a monster like Armand. It just wouldn't happen. Of this, Armand was certain. Jean leaned forward and kissed him, drawing him back out of his head. "Stop thinking, stop doubting, and don't even contemplate anything else negative. Okay?" The glare the former captain was giving him only could be answered one way.  
"Yes Jean."  
"Now, where was I?" Jean hummed for a moment, then settled back into his previous position. "You've probably already guessed where this is going. And you're right. There is no way in the world I could ever deserve you. You're the handsomest, funniest, most wonderfully intelligent man in France. You are going to do wonderful things, for France, for Europe, possibly for the world if the mood takes you - and I know things yourself to a nobody former soldier isn't the best career move, but I'm going to try anyway." Jean laughed, self depreciating but only getting handsomer by the moment. "I love you, you see. It's as simple as that. There's no one I would rather spend my life arguing with. I think of you every minute of every day, my heartbeat says Armand. I'd die for you in a heartbeat, but even when we're very old and bickering in heaven, I will love you, live for you." Frustrated, Jean scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not good with words, Armand. I want your every minute of your every day, I want your moods and your obsessions, I want your sleepy cuddles at night, and your clinginess in the mornings. I want your yelling at me when I get hurt, and to take care of you when you're ill and when your headaches come. I want your dozens of cats and your- your- I want your life Armand. I want it as part of mine, and for mine to be part of yours. I want to spend the rest of my life saying that wonderful lawyer/politician is my husband. My Armand. I want you mine and mine alone."  
"What makes you think I don't want all of that too?" Armand managed, barely able to force the words out past the lump in his throat. Jean caressed his face lovingly.  
"Hush, I'm not finished." Armand blinked back the sheen from his eyes, needing to see this, to know it was real. Only his Jean would be so delightfully contrary. "Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, will you do me the honour of allowing me to marry you?" Armand carefully set Soumise aside onto a pillow, then nodded. He launched himself into Jean's body, trusting that Jean would never let him fall. And he didn't. "Is that a yes?" Jean sounded so uncertain, even after the frankly world stopping kiss. Armand pulled back far enough to roll his eyes.  
"I was already yours, you idiot" he murmured, shaking his head fondly. "Of course I'll marry you. You didn't even need to ask."  
_____________________

They would never tell another soul the exact circumstances of their engagement (saying Jean simply ordered him to turn up at a registry office was much less sappy and more in keeping with their public personas). Regardless, it was, as Jean had insisted, the best Christmas they had ever spent together. Every one after that just got better and better. Love and Christmas just went and in hand, much like Armand and Jean themselves. In all the possible universes, there could never be a Cardinal without his Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me for all of this.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
